Steele Spying - Story 14
by Camargue
Summary: Remember the episode in which Laura and Remington were "Steele Trying"? Well, here they're Steele Spying. Read it and find out what that means. It's Number 14 in chronological order – but of course, because it's totally independent of the previous ones, anyone can follow what's going on with no problem. And anyway, quite a few of Numbers 1 to 13 ain't been written yet!
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

It stabs.

**Wah wah wah**

The noise – short, syncopated – stabs into the head, into the night.

_Shh...shh...shh_...It's a steam locomotive, a steady, sibilant rhythm..._Shh...shh...shh_...A father shushing his children..._Shh...shh...shh_...

Cloying heat. Darkness. What is this place? What is this space? But the darkness has softness...liquid shapes form themselves. The walls drip...there are walls! The walls drip with humidity – with sweat! They are blood red. This space is crowded...the shapes form, darker patches against the red walls.

_Shh...shh...shh_...Brushes. Brushes whispering on a snare drum..._Shh...shh...shh_...The steady rhythm. The rhythm is relaxed. It's a backbeat – support for the stabbing.

**Wah wah wah**

The eyes adjust...the darkness becomes less dark. Liquid shapes: people. People hovering. Sitting. Talking. Glowing, tiny lights float in the semi-darkness – fireflies? They're orange...must be the tips of a hundred cigarettes.

**Wah wah wah**

The stabbing comes again. The sound...piercing! Miles. Dizzy. The forebears are present in spirit.

**Wah wah wah**

A trumpet...piercing, penetrating the night. The shapes move less – the people still themselves. The orange tips glow but the locust throb of chatter dies. The people listen now, focused. The forebears are present in spirit…Miles, Dizzy...

It's jazz!

A light shines down. Not the moon – but a spotlight brighter than the moon. It shines on the trumpet.

**Wah wah wah**

Where is this place? What is this place? Is it a red, hot, smoky, sweaty rung of hell? Is it the Inferno? Dante's _Inferno_?

No…It's Donte's.

It's a temple – the faithful come to worship…At the altar of jazz!

The liquid shapes do not move now. Rapt, they sit and worship at the altar of jazz. The orange fireflies glow. The spotlight reflects off the trumpet.

The smoke rises and floats, a study in Brownian motion. The liquid shapes – customers, patrons – drink and sweat and listen to the jazz.

This is Donte's!

**Wah wah wah**

The trumpet blares.

_Shh…shh…shh_…

The drums whisper.

And now a voice cuts through it. The voice of the priestess. Matronly. Black. Statuesque. Singing. She sits on the stage – too old now to stand for long. But as she sings, her voice is the voice of the ages.

_"__That old black magic's got me in its spell…"_

The liquid shapes – the audience – listen. Rapt. This is why they've come here. For jazz.

_"__That old black magic that you weave so well…"_

Who is this woman? This jazz singer? Why does she enthrall so?

_"__Those icy fingers up and down my spine…"_

The spotlight cuts through the dark. The dark of Donte's Jazz Club. The patrons drink and smoke and above all – they listen!

_"__The same old witchcraft when your eyes meet mine!"_

She is Carmen McRae. A priestess of jazz. No – she is a queen of jazz! And so the audience comes – comes to Donte's to hear her sing.

**Wah wah wah**

The trumpet blares.

_Shh…shh…shh_…

The drums whisper.

And sitting, watching, listening, is a man. Tall and dark, wearing black and only black, he is devastating. Every woman in this temple of jazz has noticed him. Wants him. But he sits in the dark, watching the spotlight; listening to this queen of jazz. Rapt.

And sitting, watching, listening, is a woman. Slim and dark, her beauty is graceful; her hair tumbles like silk. She sits and watches; she watches the stage and she watches the man's profile.

Carmen McRae – this queen of jazz – sings.

_"__And every time your lips meet mine…"_

The woman watches the man. He is rapt. He can only watch the stage. She watches him and the orange firefly in front of his face – a cigar. She listens. The words have meaning for her.

_"__Darling, down and down I go round and round I go…"_

She moves closer to him. They are seated side-by-side. Shoulder-to-shoulder. They both face the stage so that they can watch Carmen McRae.

_"__In a spin, I'm loving the spin I'm in…"_

The words have meaning for her. She is in a spin. Perhaps it is this place? The heat and the sweat and the smoke and the sounds of jazz? She feels it all. Or perhaps it is merely the bubbles? The bubbles from champagne? For she has had a lot of champagne tonight, here in this temple of jazz.

_"__I'm under that old black magic called love!"_

The words have meaning for her. That is the reason she is in a spin. It is not the heat and the sweat and the smoke. It is not the champagne. Her head spins – here in this temple of jazz – because she is under that old black magic called love.

The words have meaning for her.

The song ends. The trumpet no longer blares. The snare drum ceases. And now a new noise replaces them…

The people cheer! They clap, and whistle and bang their glasses on their tables. They had come to hear Carmen McRae, this high priestess of jazz, and she has not failed them. And so they cheer.

And that's jazz!


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

As Carmen McRae walked off stage, a couple of house lights came on, brightening the darkened space marginally. Waiters lit the ornate candelabras that were on each table, turning the room into a montage of flickering flames, refracting off the blood red walls. The orange fireflies that were people's cigarette ends glowed with renewed vigor.

Remington Steele lit their own candelabra with his gold cigarette lighter, creating a gothic effect at the table. He pulled succulently on his cigar, provoking the glowing tip to a new fieriness.

He turned to Laura. "Are you okay? Everything alright?"

Laura leaned closer to him and smiled – the heartbreaking smile of an angel. "I'm fine. And everything's wonderful!"

"Good." Steele lifted the bottle of champagne – Dom Perignon '76 – from the ice bucket on their small table, and refilled their glasses. "What did you think?"

"She was perfect. That last one is a beautiful song, of course; but she was perfect."

"Yesss…she was good, wasn't she? One of the last of the old time greats, I'd say. To Carmen McRae!" They chinked their champagne glasses in a toast.

"This place is something else. It's rather dusky and sexy, isn't it?"

"Dusky and sexy, Laura?" Remington laughed. "Try hot and sweaty! But that's what a jazz club should be, eh?"

"You know, it's strange – I never really knew it was here, even though my old house was quite close by."

"It _is_ odd that the city's best jazz club should be here, where all the squares supposedly live, in the Valley…But here it is – in this strange little arty corner of boring Lankershim Boulevard."

"What do you mean, squares?" said Laura, thumping Remington playfully on his upper arm. "_I _lived in the Valley!"

"Ah! – don't blame me, Mrs Steele! I'm merely repeating what's common currency amongst the denizens of this city of yours. It doesn't necessarily mean I agree with it."

Laura wrinkled her nose at him. "Well I'm glad we came, anyway – even if Donte's is in the Valley. It's nice…for just the two of us to be out tonight. Alone. No distractions, no work…"

"Uh-huh. And may I say, Mrs Steele, that you look positively ravishing tonight!"

And it was true. Laura was wearing a women's tuxedo pant suit by Yves Saint Laurent – midnight black with satin lapels, its tight fit and elegant tailoring showed off her figure at its best. She had worn the jacket alone – women had no need of a dress shirt – and although she kept it buttoned constantly, her plunging décolletage hinted at sexual promise. Steele had always thought Laura looked best in pants and trouser suits, and coupled with black high heels and her glorious, loose hair, Laura had never looked so beautiful as tonight. She seemed to be channeling a brunette Catherine Deneuve, he thought.

"Well, thank you, kind sir!" said Laura. "And you look terribly dashing, if I may say!"

Remington grinned, then put his arm around Laura and pulled her closer, kissing the top of her head.

Laura felt relaxed, playful. The champagne, the heady atmosphere of the nightclub had worked their magic on her.

She had to admit to herself that things had been going well recently. She had always carried a concern about their marriage and a suspicion about Remington's dependability around with her, like a low-level, irritating white noise at the edge of her field of hearing. But that seemed to fade as time went on and she felt that they were closer now than they had ever been, and – despite even her recent arrest – life was pretty good.

She leaned towards Remington, who was sitting forward, with his elbows on the table. Their upper arms touched, then she moved even closer until she rested her chin on his shoulder. "I love you," she said.

Remington turned to face her and flashed her an affectionate smile. He grasped her hand and squeezed it, before turning back to the stage and watching the five-piece house band, who where now filling the time until Carmen McRae's next set. Laura was an emotionally reserved person; neither of them, in fact, were the type to go around cooing proclamations of their love. He was glad she felt relaxed enough tonight to spontaneously express her feelings, but he knew that the best way to play it was to downplay it. Laura would probably become embarrassed if he made a big deal about it. They both _knew_ their bond to each other was strong now.

Laura, still pressing close to him, now nuzzling his upper arm like a cat, blew in his ear mischievously. Steele rotated his head without moving his body, until he and Laura were face-to-face again. She pulled back a little so that she could see him properly, as she said, "May I ask you something?"

Remington took a puff of his Padrón cigar and pretended to look thoughtful, "You can ask – I can't promise to answer."

Laura wrinkled her nose at him. "Oh really? And what about what we said – you know, when we married?"

"Love, honor and obey?"

"About always being honest...candid."

"I don't remember that being in the wedding vows?"

"Don't be so literal, Mr Steele. What about the new _spirit _of our relationship, hmm? Ireland and all that?"

"Oh, I see! You know, Laura, I never realized that that was part of this marriage lark. We spend all day together working – and talking – and then we're supposed to share our innermost thoughts as well? Whatever happened to the idea of a little mystery adding spice to a relationship, hmm?"

"Ahh...Poor Mr Steele! No doubt you think that I'll ask you to give up all your secrets, and you'll no longer be an international man of mystery?"

"Pop the cork, Mr Steele!"

"What?"

"May I just remind you, Laura, of what happened when we were dragged into Bing's case? Do you remember the night we first met the Caviar King? There I was, telling you about my exploits on Cyprus, escaping the coup back in '74 by the skin of my teeth, and a very special bottle of champagne – and you said..."

"Pop the cork, Mr Steele!" Laura squealed – an exuberant, uninhibited laugh.

Remington pretended to look annoyed, "Ah-ha! Now you remember, don't you? I was ready to dazzle you with a tale of my mysterious past, and what was your reaction? All you were interested in was hitting the bottle!"

Laura laughed again at the memory, as she took a sip of her drink. Remington was right: she had pricked the bubble of his pomposity that evening – even though most of the time it was a performance that he gave in any case. But he could be so cute when he looked self-righteous and wounded. "I plead guilt, Remington. But that was then. Tonight: a serious question – and I hope you'll answer!"

Steele expected her to ask him whether he loved her also; that would be an easy question to answer. Perhaps he had played it wrong earlier, and should have said 'I love you' back to her? "What is it, Laura?" he asked.

"Why do you like this music?"

"You mean tonight? Carmen McRae? Are you not enjoying it?"

"No, it's not that! She's brilliant, and I've had a wonderful time. But what I meant was – where did your musical tastes come from? The things you like – Tony Bennett, Frank Sinatra, Peggy Lee...as well as Carmen McRae, tonight...they're rather old fashioned, aren't they?"

"Erm, does class ever go out of fashion, Laura?"

"No...But you know what I mean. You're a child of the Sixties, so why aren't you into – oh, I don't know – The Rolling Stones or Jimi Hendrix or something?"

"You think my musical tastes are fuddy-duddy?"

"Well, let's be honest, the old crooners' music isn't cutting edge, is it? I am not denigrating it – I love a lot of the old standards myself, as you know. But I am intrigued about how you came to it?" Laura leaned in close to Remington again, pressing against his side, so that she again leaned her chin on his shoulder and kissed his ear; she felt light headed – warm, contented, frisky, sexy. "Music is so important in our lives – everyone's lives – that I'd like to understand how you feel about it," she added with a dazzling smile.

Remington turned to face her again and returned her smile, looking thoughtful. "You're serious! Well, to answer your question seriously, then..." He took a puff of his cigar, as he gathered his thoughts. "I was born in '52, and so you're right – when I was seventeen, eighteen, the groups that everyone my age liked were The Beatles, or The Grateful Dead or whatever – the counterculture. But the thing was, a lot of that rebellion was so middle class, wasn't it? All the kids putting on tie dyes and going to San Francisco were really from comfortable homes in the suburbs, weren't they?"

"That's a little cynical, isn't it?" said Laura, taking a sip of her champagne. "They were trying to change the world...to stop the War in Vietnam...to make the future better?"

"Oh, of course they were, Laura. I'm not being cynical about that. I was only trying to put forward an idea...How can I phrase it?...That people grow up at different rates. Some people mature later, I think – like the kids who were wearing flowers in their hair and going to Woodstock. Or to be more accurate, who were protesting outside the American Embassy in Berkeley Square when I was growing up in London. But I'd been on my own, more or less, since I was ten years old. I had little in common with those kids even though they were my age...I was already working for my living. And I suppose, I spent a lot of time with older people."

"Like Daniel?"

"Uh-huh, Daniel certainly. I suppose I learned a lot from him, and he was from an older generation...In fact, now that I think about it, the kind of artist I like – Billie Holliday, Anita O'Day – very much reflects Daniel's tastes."

"That would explain it, wouldn't it?"

"I suppose so. But why did you ask me that question?"

"I want to know you...what you feel about things..."

"Is that all?"

"Promise you won't laugh?" Laura asked, biting her lower lip nervously.

"Laura, I would never laugh at you."

"Well, it was being here tonight, listening to Carmen McRae. What I mean is...it_ isn't _very hip music, is it? I was thinking, 'Are we getting old?' You and I – we wear suits most of the time, we drink champagne and eat caviar...There's no rebellion, is there? Perhaps we're prematurely middle aged?" Remington chuckled, then stopped as Laura pouted, "You promised not to laugh, Remington!"

Steele quickly wiped the smirk from his face. "You're right. I apologize – I wasn't laughing at you." He puffed on his cigar pensively before saying, "I don't agree with you that we're prematurely middle aged."

"But we are pretty conservative, aren't we? We're consummate 1980s yuppies – almost a cliché."

"Come off it, Laura! Are you saying we should be down at some New Wave club on Sunset, dancing in ripped jeans to Culture Club or Duran Duran or something? That's not our taste – but I don't think it's any more significant than that."

"Are you sure? I'm younger than Cyndi Lauper and Annie Lennox – did you know that? Yet they're so different to me – polar opposites – hip and radical! And you: your musical tastes run to saloon songs and easy listening – it's hardly edgy, is it? They did some amazing stuff, but Dinah Washington or Johnny Mathis – these are artists my mother likes!"

"Look, Laura...I'm not sure why you've suddenly decided to have a mid-life crisis, but I _really _do not think that it's necessary. It's true, we have a mortgage and a car and we eat in nice restaurants, but I don't think that means we're a couple of middle-aged squares! Of course, we're aren't eighteen any more and we do have responsibilities – we've grown up, you could say. But I don't think because we eschew rock and roll rebellion, or because my musical tastes might encompass jazz and some of the old lounge crooners, that we're over the hill either.

"Rock and roll is middle aged now, anyway – just look at Live Aid last year. I'm younger than Mick Jagger and David Bowie, did _you _know that? Yet they're still cavorting on stage, and no doubt sleeping with groupies and taking drugs. This is the 1980s – I think people can choose their own identity; they're not pigeonholed by their age or the generation they belong to. The Who sang that they hoped they'd die before they got old – but twenty years later, they're still touring!"

Laura looked pensive, then shook herself out of her serious mood with a dazzling smile. Suddenly, she was back to being the light hearted, light headed woman of a few minutes earlier. She leaned over and kissed Remington. "You're a very smart cookie – you know that?"

Remington smiled back at her, as he topped up their glasses from the bottle of Dom Perignon. "Thank you for the compliment, Mrs Steele. But you're always the smartest person in the room – _you _know that!"

Laura grinned and chinked her glass against Remington's in a toast, "Cheers!"

"Chin, chin!" said Steele.

As she sipped her drink, Laura saw a woman enter the club out of the corner of her eye. In her forties, tall and beautiful with striking pale red hair, she and a male companion were led by a waitress towards a free table. Laura nudged Remington and indicated the woman with a nod, "Look, Remington – there's a face we know! It's a surprise to see her here."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Following the direction of Laura's glance, Steele peered through the gloom of the low lit nightclub, until he recognized the woman's face. "Marisa Peters!" he said. "Well, well, well..."

When the waitress had moved out of the way, Steele was able to see Marisa more clearly at her table, which was a little closer to the stage and slightly off to one side compared to theirs. She was dressed in what looked like a dark colored, lady's business suit and white blouse – not the most relaxed attire for a Friday night on the town. But she still looked striking, with her medium-length hair flowing loose, framing her pale complexion and giving her a Pre-Raphaelite aspect. Her companion was black, middle aged and dressed formally in a dark suit and tie.

"Should we go over and say hello?" asked Laura.

"Uhm, I don't think we should interrupt them, Laura. I'm sure they'd probably prefer to have a peaceful night out. And anyway, we don't really know her, do we?"

"Perhaps you're right. I wonder what she's doing in Los Angeles? I thought she lived in London?"

"I haven't a clue. I barely spoke to her at Ashford Castle."

"Oh, I talked to her a little," said Laura, taking a sip of champagne. "That evening, after Tony Roselli was arrested and once we had sent the three caskets away."

"What did you talk about?"

"You remember what it was like that evening?" Laura leaned closer and touched Remington's forearm. "There was a very strange atmosphere...Daniel had just passed on, and everyone felt...subdued. And nervous! We all wondered if those Russian goons who were watching the castle might charge inside looking for Kemadov."

The merest shadow seemed to pass over Steele's face as he thought about Daniel's death. Laura squeezed his forearm where her hand was resting, in a gesture of sympathy. "I remember," said Steele.

"Anyway...you were busy with Inspector O'Brien and that man from British Intelligence, arranging the caskets' shipment and supervising the staff. So Mildred, Marisa and I had a light supper in the Map Room, and we talked. About her father, mostly."

"What did she say?"

"She told me she was a journalist – a foreign correspondent for an American newspaper, based in their London bureau."

"Ah, that explains a lot," said Steele, sucking on his cigar.

"How so?"

"Well, when we encountered her in Ireland, she and Daniel were obviously up to some, er, scheme..."

"We know that – she was looking for her father, who was arrested by the Russians."

"Of course; but what I meant was, she was very _capable_ when it came to all the shenanigans that she and Daniel were involved in – adopting disguises, breaking into places...she was obviously no 'civilian'."

"Hmm, I see what you mean. I suppose being a journalist explains it – she's probably quite at home living by her wits. It's probably how she met Daniel in the first place."

Remington chuckled. "You're right. I think you and I forget sometimes, Laura, what unconventional circles we move in – and what champion risk takers we are. Most normal people would be scared witless at the thought of breaking into foreign embassies or engaging in bluffs and double bluffs with the KGB, eh?"

"I'll admit to you, Mr Steele, that _even_ I get a little worried at some of the escapades we get up to!" Laura answered with a grin.

They paused for a moment to listen to the house band, which had grown considerably in size while they had been talking. Donte's was very much known as a musician's hangout, and three or four guest musicians had simply hopped onto the stage with their instruments and joined in; the whole ensemble was now jamming with abandon – Steele recognized the tune as Benny Goodman's _Sing, Sing, Sing_. As they watched the stage, Marisa Peters, glancing around the room, spotted them; with a word to her companion, she rose and squeezed her way through the throng of tables towards them.

"Remington? Laura? What a surprise to see you again," she greeted them with a smile.

"Hello Marisa," Laura said to her, as Steele rose and offered her a spare chair. "What are you doing in Los Angeles?"

Marisa's smile dimmed, "Oh, I'm still trying to find out about my father, you know."

"Would you like some champagne?" offered Remington. "I can get the waiter to bring another glass." Marisa shook her head to decline.

"So have you had any luck at all in locating your father?" asked Laura.

The redhead seemed to struggle to recover her poise as she said, "Unfortunately, no. I'm still campaigning, though. That's why I'm in LA – I'm going to be interviewed by _Spotlight News_ about my father's case. Every little bit of publicity can help."

"_Spotlight News_?" queried Remington. "A Russian political prisoner doesn't sound like their kind of thing?"

"It's not NBC and Tom Brokaw, I'll grant you – it's only a cable station. But the Baxter Broadcasting Group is nationally syndicated, and it does cover serious news stories as well as the more light hearted stuff. To be truthful, I'm grateful to anybody who'll take an interest in my father's case."

Laura instinctively leaned forward and held Marisa's hand in a gesture of support. "I'm sorry about your father. It must be a difficult situation?"

"Much more than I would have thought, actually. We didn't get along very well, so it was surprising to me...how much our families can mean to us when something goes wrong. Have you ever thought that?"

"You're right," Laura replied, remembering her own recent travails when she had been arrested.

"Erm, may I ask what exactly happened to your father, Marisa?" said Remington, blowing a perfect smoke ring and watching it slowly drift away. "It's rather surprising, isn't it, that an American citizen can be held by the Soviet Union and yet that there should be so little publicity about the case?"

"Well, my father isn't very important, I'm afraid to say. And given how tense relations are between the United States and Russia at the moment, it's no surprise that there's no appetite to try and help him. I was in Washington last week, and I managed to meet with a couple of Congressmen about his case, so perhaps they'll be able to put some pressure on the State Department. But I'm not too hopeful. After all, he was guilty."

"He was?"

"Oh, yes – absolutely. He was as guilty as hell! He was caught red handed trying to assist political refugees to escape to the West."

"How?" asked Laura.

"You see, he was – is – a publisher of academic books. The Russian higher educational system is outside the mainstream of research that is going on in Western universities, and so they're desperately backward in many areas of academia. They have access to journals and books, in English, of course, but there are never enough copies. And in some areas – like history or economics – the Communist Party will not countenance certain information being taught anyway, as it's not ideologically pure. So my father's business concentrated on translating and publishing really important academic textbooks from English into Russian."

"A noble undertaking. What happened?"

"My father knew Russia well, and went there often. He loved the country actually, and spoke fluent Russian. He was always meeting academics, publishers, university administrators...and dissidents as well. And my father was rather a liberal, I'm afraid – one of those save-the-world types; somehow, he got himself involved in helping to plan the escape of dissidents to the West."

Laura sipped her Dom Perignon as she pondered Marisa's story. "But how can you be certain that he was guilty?"

"The trial was pretty open, Laura," replied Marisa. "Someone from the American embassy attended and watched the whole thing. And my father had an independent lawyer...it was all quite above board – at least by Soviet standards. They had no reason to fix the trial, because there was more than enough evidence that he was guilty of what he had been accused of."

"I think your friend is getting somewhat, er, restless," said Remington, glancing in that direction. "Should I go over there and fetch him? Perhaps you'd both care to join us?"

"Oh, no thank you, Remington. He's a producer at _Spotlight News_, in fact. We were planning the outline of my interview, and thought we'd pop in here to discuss it over a drink – he's a jazz fan, you see. I should return to him, really; and anyway, I wouldn't want to break into your evening any further." They stood, and Marisa shook hands with both Laura and Steele, before returning to her own table.

"Do you think we were rude, Remington?" asked Laura, deep in thought. "Perhaps we should have insisted that they join us?"

"No, I don't think we were. She wouldn't have imposed herself on us anyway – she's too well mannered, I'd say."

"Poor woman. She must be feeling terrible."

"It can't be easy," agreed Steele, topping up their champagne glasses. "In fact, she must have been rather desperate in the first place, to rope Daniel into helping her. I don't think he had any particular contacts behind the Iron Curtain."

"His plan would have been clever, though – using one of three caskets to bring Marisa's father back from Russia."

"_Funeral in Berlin _– Michael Caine, Paramount, 1966; Caine plays British Intelligence agent Harry Palmer, who plans to use a coffin to smuggle a defector out of East Berlin. I think that may be where Daniel got the idea. It's just a shame he never got to execute it."

"You're right. I wonder how those two got involved with each other? They seem an unlikely combination; Daniel was hardly a...legitimate member of society – if I can put it that way?"

Remington looked at her with a twinkle in his eye. "You can say it Laura – no need to tiptoe around the fact that Daniel walked on the shady side of the street!"

"I wish there was something we could do to help Marisa."

"Us? It's a tad out of our line."

"Oh, I know. But I would help her if I could...she seems rather forlorn."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

"Tell me."

"Oh, I couldn't..."

"Tell me!"

"Really, Laura, whatever imprecations you make will simply fall on deaf ears."

"TELL ME!"

"Okay! Okay!" As Laura loomed over his chair, with her hands in front of her pretending to imminently strangle him, Remington Steele threw up his hands in a gesture of defeat. He flashed one of his incorrigible grins. "Here...it's in my desk." He opened a drawer and fished out a manila file, which he held out to a smiling Laura.

"Thank you, Mr Steele. That wasn't too difficult, was it?"

"Hmm…" Steele pretended to look put out.

"I knew we could reach a compromise," Laura said, still smiling. "I guess my fear that if we got married, we'd always be playing power games, was wrong."

"That was your view of marriage, was it? Interesting! Although I must say, you have a novel negotiating technique, Mrs Steele."

"Years of experience, Mr Steele, of dealing with a charming English rogue."

"You don't say? But I still don't know why we have to work now. Let's have lunch, and take care of all this drudgery after we've eaten, eh?"

"We can go to lunch when Mildred gets back. Until then, we have to mind the store. So right now, let's finish up this report, shall we? The sooner it's done, the sooner we'll be finished."

"What? That doesn't even make any sense!"

"Don't obsess over logic, Mr Steele," Laura said sweetly. She walked over to the couch by the wall of photographs, slipped off her gray, mid-heeled slingbacks and sat down, tucking her legs underneath her. She gathered up a pen and a yellow legal pad, and started flicking through its pages.

Steele, who was dressed in a subtle windowpane-checked, very dark gray, single breasted suit, plain blue grenadine silk tie and cream dress shirt, followed her and planted himself in one of the single armchairs. He watched Laura while she was distracted with her pad – she looked adorable. With no client meetings today, she had dressed semi-casually, in a Barami gray flannel tunic dress; of three-quarter length and sleeveless, it had a high, round neck and was loosely cut, but a matching belt just hinted at the shape of Laura's figure. A short strand of small pearls was around her neck, and she was wearing her hair loose with a soft parting. The thought flashed through Steele's head for an instant that he would like to simply pick Laura up, throw her over his shoulder and drag her back to his cave and have sex with her. As quickly as he could, he pushed his Neanderthal instincts back into the recesses of his mind, grinning to himself; what would Laura say if she could read his thoughts – his primeval, unvarnished, _male_ thoughts...?

"Remington?" Laura said, looking at him.

"Hmm?"

"You tuned out for a second there."

"Sorry, Laura. Where were we?"

"I'll read back what we wrote down earlier; jump in and add anything that you think is relevant," Laura replied, passing him the manila file. Steele opened it while concentrating on listening to her, as she read back:

_To: Mr James Howard, Chief Executive, Defense Analytics Limited [DAL]_  
_Date: 11/19/1986_  
_Interim Report of Remington Steele Investigations [RSI] – Security Audit_  
_Status: Highly Confidential [For Your Eyes Only]_

_Dear Mr Howard,_

_Since being appointed by you to undertake a security audit of your company on 11/11/1986, RSI has followed its enhanced, two-stage security audit procedure. This complies with the Federal guidelines on security for companies granted secret and/or defense contracts. You initially called RSI in following evidence that there had been an attempt at unauthorized access to the mainframe computer, and that one of the magnetic tapes had been removed from the records room and replaced incorrectly – the suspicion being that an intruder had gained access to the DAL building and had tried to read the information on the computer tapes._

_Stage 1 of the security audit involved a risk assessment of your company's premises and on-site security procedures. These factors include, for example, the location/vulnerability of the building, the patrol patterns of the security guards, how efficient your closed circuit cameras are, whether there are any vulnerabilities in the swipecard door locks, etc. The full Stage 1 risk assessment results are contained in the document 'Appendix A' that is enclosed with this report, including detailed recommendations to improve DAL's on-site security processes. To summarize: RSI found serious vulnerabilities existed, which allowed a person inside the building to move about freely after normal working hours. Our conclusion is that your security processes were geared towards preventing unauthorized access by outsiders but had overlooked the possibility of an internal security breach. This is obviously of serious concern._

"Wait, Laura," interrupted Remington, "have we actually got the 'Appendix A' document?"

"Yes, Mildred typed it up this morning – it's all ready. Shall I continue?" Steele nodded, and Laura began reading aloud again from her legal pad:

_Stage 2 of the security audit involved deep background checks on all the company personnel. This is obviously a time consuming process, looking at all your employees' financial records, telephone records, recent court and police records, spouses, etc. Even though DAL is officially characterized as a small enterprise (with fewer than fifty employees), there is still a lot of data involved in checking on all of them. RSI uses computer experts on a subcontract basis to sift all the information, looking for anomalies in the records. If any red flags are thrown up, RSI will then focus on the employee and investigate directly._

_Unfortunately, our audit has discovered a high-risk vulnerability amongst your employees. One of your computer scientists, Mr Nigel Farndale, a British citizen who is on attachment to DAL from Cambridge University and has a 'Top Secret', Level 1 security clearance, has a serious gambling habit. A search of his license plate on several databases flagged up that he is a habitué of two private, legal gambling clubs (the red flag was raised because his car is registered for valet parking at these clubs). Follow-up inquiries by RSI further showed that Mr Farndale is known to also frequent two illegal gambling clubs in the greater Los Angeles area, and to be informally in debt to semi-criminal/underworld money lenders by approximately $7,000 (although of course, no official loan agreement exists given the criminal nature of the money lenders involved)..._

"Is that it?" asked Steele, who had slunk down in his chair, thrown his head right back and stared at the ceiling as he listened to Laura read the draft report.

"That's it so far," Laura replied, looking up and seeing only the bottom of Remington's chin. "The question is, what do we recommend to Mr Howard to do about this situation?"

"I shadowed Farndale for most of last weekend; the chap is definitely in deep, perhaps too deep. He spent so much time playing poker, he barely slept. Sometimes he won, sometimes he lost, but overall I'd say he had dropped at least a thousand dollars by the time Monday morning had rolled around again."

"Can he afford that?"

Remington looked through the manila file, and began to read from a piece of paper. "Let's see...According to Mildred's biographical research...Farndale...expert computer programmer...thirty-three years old...PhD in computer sciences...currently a Senior Lecturer at Cambridge University...his university salary in England is equivalent to about $23,000 per annum...seconded to DAL for one year...salary $27,000."

"A comfortable income for an unmarried man, I'd say, but not enough to carry the kind of gambling losses he's carrying."

"Uh-huh. Weasel did some sniffing around for me – at least two loan sharks that he knows are carrying Farndale's promissory notes. Eventually, they'll start to put pressure on him to pay the money back."

"It's strange...a man like that – so highly educated, with such a sensitive job – and yet he appears to be a gambling addict," mused Laura.

"Strange – really? You've been around, Laura – you must've seen this many times. Remember our own mild, meek Reuben Saltzman? – secretly addicted to the gee-gees."

"Oh, I've seen the phenomenon many times; as an investigator, you know that financial worries, often from gambling, are a major cause of people's bad behavior. But I still don't understand it emotionally – how someone could jeopardize their entire life for a gambling habit?"

"I seem to recall a certain young lady becoming _very_ emotionally involved when we were last in Las Vegas?" Remington said, rubbing his chin pensively. "Hmm... it comes back to me, now...'Sleep is for cowards' was the rallying cry, wasn't it?"

"Yes, well…the less that's said about that, the better," Laura said, blushing and staring at the floor to avoid looking at her grinning husband.

"Ah, yes...sober, rational Laura Holt suddenly turned into a whirling dervish of the craps table, eh?"

Laura twitched her nose deprecatingly. "That was a one-off. But I could never understand why someone would sacrifice their whole life to gambling?"

"It _really _is an addiction, Laura. The rush you get when you turn over that ace or your horse finishes first – some people can't live without it."

"I guess not."

"Stan Bowles."

"Who?"

"A kid I knew back in the old days in London. He was only eighteen or nineteen, perhaps, but he was already a hardened gambler. That kind of gambling addict – well, their whole perspective on reality becomes distorted. Stan once told me, in all seriousness, 'I've been a really unlucky gambler. If you're on your way to the track, and you see a magpie, turn back – because you won't win anything. I've seen a lot of magpies'."

Laura looked at Remington thoughtfully; "That's not how it was for you? I've seen you at the tables, or when we've been to the race course – so focused."

"No – gambling's a diversion, that's all. Of course, I concentrate if I'm playing poker, for example – I want to win and I take it seriously; but ultimately I just enjoy the spontaneous inconsequentiality of it. It's only money, after all," Remington said, with one of his grins.

Laura couldn't help but smile back at Remington even wider. "Mr Steele...'spontaneous inconsequentiality'...that could be your philosophy of life."

"Hmm. The question is, Laura, what about Nigel Farndale? He looked to me like he had all the signs of an unequivocal gambling addict. And since he works for a defense contractor on secret computer research, that makes him a security risk. Perhaps even responsible for the attempted mainframe access?"

Laura was back to business, "Agreed. We've no option but to recommend that the FBI be informed of Mr Farndale's, uhm, proclivities, and that he be kept under surveillance. We need to find out if those computer tapes were accessed, and why."

"I'd suggest making _two _recommendations to Mr Howard – an alternative to covert surveillance on Farndale would simply be for him to be interviewed formally by the company hierarchy. Perhaps if he's confronted with the issue, he'll come clean and then try and confront his gambling problem?"

Laura was writing in her legal pad as Remington spoke. "I've noted that down – two alternative options to our client about how to deal with the Farndale situation."

"I could suggest another option for dealin' with Mr Farndale," a voice from the doorway said.

Laura looked up towards the sound of the voice, and her eyes widened in surprise. Standing in the entrance to Remington's office was Tony Roselli.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Steele had automatically stood up when he'd realized someone had come into the room, and now said, "Good Lord! Anthony Roselli. Quite a blast from the past." His face was impassive, although his jaw was clenched tighter than usual.

Laura had also risen. "Tony? What are you doing here?" she asked, her surprise evident.

"It's good to see you, Laura. How are you, Steele? Can I come in?"

"Please do, Anthony," said Remington.

"I don't suppose we thought we'd ever meet you again after Ireland, Tony," said Laura. "You seem well. I hope you're looking after yourself – not making too many enemies?"

Tony Roselli grinned, "I'm behavin' myself, more or less, Laura. And I'm doing okay – or as okay as it's possible to be with the job I got, you know?"

"Something tells me this isn't a social call, Anthony" said Steele.

Another figure appeared immediately behind Roselli in the doorway. "I hope we're not disturbing you, Mr Steele, Mrs Steele?" said a man, slightly shorter than Tony, with a well-bred English accent, as he followed him a few steps into the room.

"Mr Trevelyan – so we meet again?" said Remington, by way of greeting.

Laura, who had put her shoes on while the men were talking, subconsciously took a couple of steps closer to Remington, until she was standing next to him. "Mr Trevelyan? I think my husband is right – your presence here is no coincidence, is it?"

"No, Mrs Steele, it isn't."

"Please, do sit down," said Steele, waving their visitors to take chairs. "May I offer you a drink?" Tony and Trevelyan demurred, and after Trevelyan had closed the office door, they both sat at one end of the coffee table. Laura instinctively moved to a place at the other end of the couch, next to Remington's armchair.

She looked their two visitors over. Tony, somewhat surprisingly to her, was dressed in a gray suit and matching tie, and looked very much like a Federal employee; his hair was shorter than when she and Remington had first met him, and he was less tanned, but he appeared fit and healthy. Their other visitor, Alec Trevelyan, the MI6 agent who had debriefed them over the Kemadov affair, was dressed starkly in a black suit and plain midnight blue tie with a white dress shirt; his clothes looked custom made and expensive compared to Tony's. Of just over medium height, he was rather thin, and had short blond hair that had been slicked back from his skull-shaped face; he looked a little Slavic, thought Laura. He was young – not even thirty – but despite his impeccable manners, he made her feel uncomfortable; he looked hard and ruthless.

"You're here about Mr Farndale, aren't you?" asked Laura.

Tony smiled, "I guess I can't fool you, can I, Laura?"

"What's going on, Tony?"

"Yes, Anthony – don't be coy," said Remington, with apparent good humor. "What can Remington Steele Investigations do for the, er, Federal Government, eh?"

Trevelyan and Roselli exchanged looks, then Trevelyan cleared his throat shortly, before speaking. "Mr Steele, Mrs Steele – as you know, I represent Her Majesty's Intelligence Services. Two months ago, we were approached by Nigel Farndale, who informed us about his...fondness for poker, and the fact that he had managed to incur considerable debts owed to some rather…undesirable characters, shall we say?"

"We know about this," said Laura. "Mr Farndale is in a hole for something like seven thousand dollars."

"Quite so, Mrs Steele. More disturbingly, Farndale told us that he had been approached by someone representing a third party, who would be interested in receiving certain information he was privy to, as a result of his work – in exchange for which, this third party would write off Farndale's debts."

"Ah, the greenmail ploy," said Remington, still showing no signs of being disconcerted by the sudden appearance of their visitors.

"Precisely. My people made some discreet inquiries, and ascertained that the third party in question was none other than the Senior Attaché for Cultural Affairs at the Soviet Consulate here in Los Angeles – one Nikolai Petrossian."

"Petrossian?" said Steele with a grin. "Well, well – what a small world, eh?"

"As you say, Mr Steele," said Trevelyan, with a thin smile. "It was, of course, rather standard operating procedure for the KGB: find someone's weak spot and squeeze them in order to bend them to your will."

"Why are you telling us this?" asked Laura.

"Mrs Steele, what I am about to tell you and your husband is Top Secret; let me make it clear that you are not at liberty to reveal this conversation to anyone. Mr Farndale is, as you know, a computer programmer. At Defense Analytics, he is working on a project related to the SDI – the Strategic Defense Initiative."

"The Star Wars program? President Reagan's proposal to build a defense shield for the US?"

"The very same. Farndale is working on the missile control software for the SDI shield."

"So why don't you just arrest Petrossian? I suppose he has diplomatic immunity, but you – well, the State Department anyway – could expel him from the United States?"

"Quite so. But it seemed to my superiors, Mrs Steele, that we were presented here with a benison. It is clear that Petrossian, since being assigned to the Los Angeles consulate, has been given the task of ferreting out information about the SDI whenever he can. California – and indeed, Los Angeles – is central to the American aerospace industry, and there are many, many defense contractors located here. And so we thought that perhaps Petrossian _should_ be given the information he was after – highly confidential, cutting edge computer coding for controlling the proposed Star Wars missiles."

"Oh, very good!" said Remington with a smile. "The old double bluff, eh? You 'allow' Farndale to be squeezed and to hand over top secret material...but material that's been doctored just a tad, so that it causes the Russians a lot of hassle."

"You worked us out pretty quickly, didn'tcha, Steele?" said Tony, with a grin.

"_The Spy Who Came in From the Cold _– Richard Burton, Paramount, 1965. Burton plays a British secret agent who is instructed by his bosses to plant disinformation within the KGB."

"As Mr Roselli indicated, that is broadly our plan," continued Trevelyan. "Farndale is really rather a brave chap; he's not the first to be caught in such a scenario by the KGB, but he decided to come clean. As a Briton, he naturally approached MI6; since this was all occurring on American soil, we then informed our colleagues in Mr Roselli's organization."

Laura was frowning as she digested the narrative of the two spies; she didn't like what she was hearing. "And how did Remington Steele Investigations become involved in this?"

The cold-eyed Trevelyan, who had brought his hand up in front of his mouth while he was thinking, stared at Laura for a few seconds – he seemed to be assessing her. "This plan – what we do generally, Mr Roselli and I – is rather delicate. We want to convince the KGB that Petrossian has scored a major coup by obtaining high level, Top Secret, missile programming; but if they obtain the material too easily, they'll suspect a trap. We have to lay sufficient barriers in their way so that they have to pay a high 'price' for the information, and therefore, psychologically, they attach a lot of value to it. That in turn will make them less critical and objective in assessing it, and more likely to accept its authenticity. But we don't want to erect too many hurdles, so that the KGB fails to actually get the information."

"I see...How very clever, Mr Trevelyan."

"Human psychology, Mrs Steele; although I cannot claim sole responsibility. It was a rather well known nineteenth century thinker, Thorstein Veblen, who first discovered this rather interesting psychological quirk of human beings. He called it 'conspicuous consumption' – the more the price of something goes up, the more people want it."

Remington was grinning again, "You know, you chaps in the intelligence business really are very, very surprising. I never thought I'd hear a spy quoting nineteenth century intellectuals!" Tony grinned, and Trevelyan gave the hint of an ironic smile, as if unsure whether Steele was being sincere or not.

Laura broke into the mutual appreciation society developing amongst the men, saying, "Mr Trevelyan, you still haven't told us how we're involved in this."

Trevelyan continued, "It occurred to me that if there could be some security or law enforcement agency which was digging around Farndale – which was some kind of threat to him – then the KGB would be even more convinced of the value of the material Farndale had. And so the CIA approached Mr Howard, and without telling him the reasons, instructed him to have a security audit conducted of Defense Analytics, with your agency being engaged to perform it. And we told Farndale to play along with Petrossian, while we would be keeping an eye on things in the background, to see how it all played out."

"Would you gentlemen like a drink?" Remington asked, as he stood up and walked over to the drinks cabinet next to his desk. "But please don't mind me – do carry on, Mr Trevelyan." He prepared three whiskey-and-sodas for Laura and their visitors, and a cognac for himself, before returning to his seat.

"So that's how Remington Steele Investigations was involved in this scheme?" asked Laura.

"Yeah, Laura," said Tony. "That was my idea. You see, about a month ago, after a lot of shadow boxin' by go-betweens, Farndale finally met Petrossian, who put the squeeze on him. He mentioned Farndale's IOUs held with a couple of loan sharks here in LA, which he'd pay off, but also said he'd blow the whistle on Farndale's gambling habit to the FBI if Farndale didn't co-operate. Farndale's career woulda been ruined, of course. So we told Farndale to act reluctant, but to play along and agree to steal some software from his job. When your agency came into DAL, although the security audit was supposed to be secret, Mr Howard was told by us to leak just enough information to the company staff so that people were aware there was an audit going on. Farndale then told Petrossian about the audit, and acted kinda nervous. It all added up to make Petrossian think that the information he was going to get out of DAL was hard earned, and really special."

"You've been using our agency, Tony. Again. Just like in London, over the Helmsley business," said Laura with a frown.

"I shouldn't characterize it as that, Mrs Steele," said Trevelyan smoothly. "Mr Roselli indicated a high degree of trust and confidence in your agency – in its tact and its competence. This is a very delicate affair – we don't want to tip our hand to the KGB."

Laura was annoyed, "Ha! However you phrase it Mr Trevelyan, you're using us, and without our agreement or even our knowledge. I don't like it, and I don't like your spy games."

"Icy calm, Laura, icy calm," said Remington under his breath to her, brushing her hand for a fraction of a second in a gesture of reassurance. More loudly, he continued, "I still don't know what you want from us, Mr Trevelyan?"

"The 'narrative' is this, Mr Steele: just as Mr Howard told you, there was an attempted unauthorized access of DAL's mainframe computer about two weeks ago – this was when Farndale tried to 'copy' the missile control software that the company is working on. The story he told Petrossian was that he failed, but will try again. Petrossian knows that RSI is around, conducting a security audit, and so quite naturally he's nervous about the whole business in case anything goes wrong. When Farndale does access DAL's mainframe, the key sections of computer code will supposedly be copied onto a set of five-and-a-half-inch floppy disks. Farndale will then intend to 'sell' these to Petrossian in return for money to pay off his gambling debts. But we want you to steal those computer disks from Farndale."

Remington, who seemed unaccountably merry to Laura, said, "What a wonderfully bizarre twist!"

Laura herself was still irritated by their visitors. "What would the point of that be? I assume the disks are to be doctored, and will not have any real missile information on them?"

"Sure," said Tony. "But It's like Alec told you earlier, Laura – we want you to 'steal' the disks from Farndale, to give them added credibility regarding their value."

"And then what?"

"And then, Mrs Steele," said Trevelyan, "we want you to 'sell' the disks to Petrossian yourselves."

"No!" exclaimed Laura, with a vehemence which took even herself by surprise. She took a sip of her whiskey-and-soda before continuing. "I won't do it. We won't do it. If Petrossian suspects we are selling him fake computer code, we'll be in danger. He'll kill us!" There was a silence in the room, as Trevelyan and Roselli looked at each other archly. Laura scowled in irritation, while Remington's face remained featureless, as he struggled not to show his feelings.

Remington now spoke, "I'm not sure I understand, Mr Trevelyan, what the point of that would be?"

"The point, Mr Steele, as I explained before, is to make Petrossian work hard for his information. He knows you're doing a security audit. In fact, his men have been observing your agency for the last few days; every time you have left this office, Russian field agents have been watching your every move. We've been watching them watching you. So if you were to 'steal' the disks, then you would have them and Farndale would be out of the picture. Petrossian knows you're professionals – tough and intelligent – whereas Farndale was an easily-manipulated amateur. He'll believe that he can negotiate a deal with you both, and he'll be ready to pay a high price for those disks."

"Laura is right, though, isn't she? This would put us both right in the middle of this scheme – a dangerous place to be!"

"There's always danger in this business, Steele. You should know that," said Tony Roselli, with a smile at some in-joke known only to himself.

"But we're not in _your_ business, are we, Anthony, old chap? This is the KGB you're talking about – bombs…poison darts…big fat guys with deadly hats they throw at your neck! I agree with Laura – I do not think this is something this agency would want to become embroiled in."

"You are embroiled already, Mr Steele," said Trevelyan grimly.

Laura, struggling to control her temper, said, "Thanks to you, Mr Trevelyan. You've both dragged us into something without our agreement!"

"Perhaps so. But we are asking you, Mrs Steele, to help your country…both your countries, indeed."

Remington looked amused, "An appeal to patriotism, Trevelyan? Isn't that a little gauche?"

"You might say so, Mr Steele; but we are in a war with the Russians – a Cold War, but a war nevertheless. You are British, your wife is American: both your countries – the Western Alliance, indeed – are engaged in a struggle against the Eastern Bloc. That is a reality that cannot be avoided – and I don't consider it gauche to say that I would rather our side won than theirs."

"Don't invoke causes to me, Trevelyan – I don't believe in them."

"Laura, won'tcha at least think about this?" asked Tony, appealing directly to her. "This is an important plan. The Star Wars program will be central to our defense going into the next century, you know? The Russians will be looking to get any information that they can on it. And after last year – 'The Year of the Spy' with all those guys like Randy Jeffries and Edward Lee Howard – if we can throw a wrench in their plotting, it chalks one up for the good guys!"

"I don't like your spy games, Tony – I never have. They use people, and put them in danger. I agree with Remington – this whole business is nothing to do with us."

A flash of anger now shone in Tony's eyes, as he matched Laura's stare. "This is a real nice office, Laura. You and Steele – you have a really enviable lifestyle: you own a nice apartment, classic sports cars, you fly First Class…But who keeps you safe at night, huh? Like Alec said, the Cold War is fought in the shadows, by people like him and me; we're always looking for any small edge we can get to stop the Soviet Union's military build-up, or to stop another Third World country turning Communist, maybe in the end to stop The Bomb going off, you know?"

"I'm patriotic, Tony – don't imply that I'm not!"

"I'm not saying you aren't patriotic, Laura; but maybe it takes more than saying you are, huh?" Tony looked past her, seeming to focus on some image in the far distance, as he said, "You know, at Langley, there's a memorial wall of all The Company's agents that have died in the course of their duties…it's very humbling – the sacrifices people have made."

Laura's face was red with anger, and Remington, recognizing the signs, jumped in before she exploded. Leaning forward in his chair, he said, "Really Anthony, that's a bit near the bone, wouldn't you say? If you're trying to persuade us to help you, I don't think needling Laura is the way to do it. Or me, for that matter."

"Quite so, Mr Steele," said Trevelyan, with a cynical smile; he looked as if he were enjoying the confrontation. "If Mr Roselli and I cannot appeal to your sense of the political, then perhaps we can appeal to your sense of the personal?" He stood up and walked to the office door, opened it and summoned someone into the room; Laura and Remington looked up to see Marisa Peters walk in.

"Marisa!" said Steele, with only the slightest hint of surprise in his voice.

"Hello Laura, hello Remington," she greeted them – rather unhappily, it seemed.

"Oh, Marisa?" Laura said, sounding slightly disappointed. "You're involved too?"


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

"Miss Peters is indeed to be a part of our little drama," said Trevelyan, as he pulled a spare armchair up to the coffee table for Marisa to sit in.

Marisa confirmed, "I'm afraid I am, Laura – although not entirely willingly." She was dressed in a tan colored, tweed suit with a pencil skirt that came down well below her knees, a cream turtleneck sweater, and brown suede boots; a tan scarf around her neck made her look even more as if she had just come back from a walk across the Irish countryside.

"What exactly does your scheme have to do with Marisa, Trevelyan?" asked Remington.

"If my 'scheme' is to succeed, Steele, the question that needs to be answered is: why would you agree to provide secret information to the KGB?" Trevelyan replied. Remington noticed that the impeccably-mannered British agent had stopped addressing him as 'Mr'.

He continued, "If we are to have you 'selling' the computer disks to the Russians, we need to allay any suspicions that they might have about your involvement. So why would _you_ engage in conduct that appears, on its face, to be treasonous? You are, after all, Remington Steele – the renowned private investigator. Would you do it for money? – unlikely, since you and your wife are affluent, perhaps even wealthy. We can rule out straightaway some sort of ideological motive – there's no evidence to suggest that you're sympathetic to the Communist cause." Trevelyan gave a thin smile now, "You might be coerced, of course – I think that we almost all can be coerced in some way or another – but that would require the Russians to expend time and effort discovering and exploiting your weak spot."

Tony looked at Steele as he said, "I'm sure we mighta found a way to coerce Mr and Mrs Steele, but that wouldn'ta been the right thing to do to my friends, would it?"

"Quite so," said Trevelyan. "No – the reason that you and your wife would apparently provide top secret information to the Soviets is personal – to help a friend. You _would _exchange the Star Wars computer disks for information about the whereabouts of Miss Peters' father, Robert Peters. And that is why we have, ah...insinuated Miss Peters into the _mise en scène_ of our production."

Laura, who had barely calmed down since earlier, now spoke to Marisa, "So that's why you're helping Tony and Mr Trevelyan – for information about your father? I can understand your motives."

"Laura, please believe me: I wouldn't have wanted to involve you and Remington this way, by emotionally blackmailing you."

"Miss Peters is being accurate," said Trevelyan. "She has little choice in this matter."

"How so?" asked Laura.

"In Ireland, Miss Peters attempted – with the help of your friend Mr Chalmers – to hand over an American intelligence agent to the Russians. That can be construed as treason, or something as close to it such that it makes no difference. Miss Peters violated your country's Espionage Act. Mr Roselli and I simply pointed that out to her."

"Yeah, and I got a very personal reason for reminding her about that," added Tony, unconsciously rubbing the back of his head.

"Do you find it hard to live with yourself, Mr Trevelyan, given the way you use people?" asked Laura, disliking the suave Englishman more than ever.

"I wouldn't agree that I use people, Mrs Steele. I am like a skilled watchmaker; the various strands of an espionage plot are like the springs and cogs of a watch – I merely put all the pieces together and wait for the mechanism to begin working. I said that Miss Peters had little choice, not that she had no choice; she is free to either assist us or to face prosecution for her actions in Ireland – that is her choice."

"You're quite a piece of work, aren't you, Trevelyan?" said Remington coldly.

"Don't feel any undue sentiment towards Miss Peters, Steele; not only will she avoid prison if she helps us, but she will also obtain concrete information about her father's whereabouts – something she has been attempting to do for over two years. Miss Peters has a lot to gain from this enterprise."

"He's right, Remington," said Marisa. "I wouldn't have wanted it to have happened this way – using you both and perhaps endangering you both – but if this comes off, I should be able to get some information on what's happened to my father. At least if I knew if he was alive or dead...it's the hope that kills you, you see..."

With a great effort, Laura suppressed her temper until it was merely a simmering, low level disgust. "So if we became a part of your 'enterprise', what exactly would the plan be?" she asked.

"Continue your security audit…" answered the English spy. "Watch Farndale – the Russians are watching you and will know you're on to him. Farndale will successfully 'copy' the computer code in a day or two, and your agency will then 'steal' it back from him, in order to return it to Defense Analytics. As patriotic citizens, you will intend to reveal the breach of security to DAL, report Farndale and call in the FBI – effectively shutting down the company for some months. If I've read him correctly, Petrossian will try and forestall that by quickly obtaining the disks from you."

"Who's to say what he might do, eh?" asked Remington. "As Laura pointed out before, he might simply kill us, or torture us or something, to get hold of the disks."

"Perhaps. But I don't think so – you're both too well known, and too capable, for that to be likely. In any case, Steele, we – that is, the CIA – will be keeping a discreet eye on you. We shan't let you come to any harm. But I do not think violence is Petrossian's style, so I believe he will try to bargain with you. All you will have to do is to appear reluctant, but eventually to cut a deal – the disks for information about Robert Peters."

"If he believes us, of course."

"You're hardly amateurs, are you? It will be your job to appear convincing and believable to Petrossian so that he does not suspect a trap. Remember, he's a Russian – at heart, he'll believe that everyone, however seemingly principled, is willing to compromise those principles."

Apparently having nothing more to say, Trevelyan simply stared at the Steeles impassively. He seemed unaffected by the tension of the meeting – Laura thought him much too cold blooded for her liking.

Tony asked, "So, what's it to be? Are you in? Laura?"

Laura kept her face impassive, even though inside she was still seething, and disappointed that he was a part of this scheme. He was using her, and Remington, for his espionage plots, just as he had before – even though he was supposed to be a friend. "We need to caucus, Tony. Let us think about it."

Trevelyan stood up, as if now bored by the conversation. He nodded acknowledgement to Laura and Remington, and as Tony stood also, said, "Of course, Mrs Steele. Mr Roselli and I shall await your answer. Let me thank you both for your hospitality this afternoon. It was a rather excellent Scotch, Steele – although it would have been better served with water, rather than in the American way, with soda. You can rest assured, you'll hear from us."

"Goodbye Laura, 'bye Steele..." Tony said, as he followed his English colleague out of Remington's office.

Laura, Marisa and Remington remained seated after the two men had left; none of them said anything, each lost in their thoughts about what had just transpired.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

With the blinds of the floor-to-ceiling picture window lowered and the other drapes half-closed, Laura and Steele sat in the semi-darkened living room of their apartment and watched the television screen.

Remington had settled back languidly in a corner of the couch, his legs splayed, and Laura was perched in the space between them, laying back so that she rested against his chest. He had snaked an arm around her middle so she was in no danger of sliding off of the couch. It felt good to feel the gentle pressure of his arm against her stomach – to relax after the day that she had had, especially the tense meeting with Tony Roselli and the MI6 man, Alec Trevelyan. Laura was sunk down so low that occasionally, Remington would simply rest his chin on the top of her head if he felt like it. Mostly, though, he was intent on looking at the screen, where _Caravan to Vaccarès_ was showing on the Z Channel.

Laura's attention drifted away from the flickering images as she became lost in her thoughts. She had never, until she met Steele, been particularly absorbed by the movies. Growing up in the golden age of television, her childhood memories were suffused instead by recollections of _The Man From Uncle_, _The Andy Griffith Show _and _Atomic Man_. Television had been something accessible in the den of her family's home – something always present as she was growing up, to be summoned simply by the turn of a dial. The movies on the other hand were 'out there' – in a theater, away from the home, and something she only ever got to see, until she was an older teenager and allowed out on her own, when she and her sister were taken as an occasional treat to a local picture house by their father, and once or twice by their grandmother.

Her earliest memory of the movies was one that still made her shiver inside when she recalled it. When Laura had been only four years old, she and Frances had sneaked off to see _Psycho_, and even though Laura had been so young that she had understood only a little of it, it had haunted her dreams for weeks.

Tim Johanssen, the oldest son of the Holts' next door neighbors, had had his own car, and when his younger sister was babysitting Frances and Laura one evening, had dared all three girls to see the Hitchcock masterpiece, which had been the sensation of 1960. "They say," Tim had told the girls, "that it's so scary that people actually die of fright while watching it." That had been all the persuasion that Tim's sister, who possessed a wild streak, had needed, and she had put the two younger girls into Tim's car, covering Laura with a blanket so that she was not spotted, and then they had headed off to the nearest drive-in. Neither set of parents had ever discovered what had happened, even though all three girls had ended up, in their different ways, traumatized for some time afterwards.

Of course, when Remington had come into her life, his interest – actually, obsession – with the movies had begun to rub off on her. He had often dragged her to special screenings, film festivals and retrospectives in and around Los Angeles, as well as regularly taking her to see some of the more interesting of the newest releases at the modern multiplexes that were now replacing the old-style movie theaters across the city.

Laura did not think she would ever be a movie buff like him; but she had initially acquiesced with good grace to these dates and had, in the last couple of years, really begun to enjoy the chance to lose herself from reality for a couple of hours. And of course, the fact of their being together physically – even if it meant sitting in a darkened room and not speaking – had been of immense significance in her enjoyment of the experience. The cinema had helped bring them closer together.

Now, as she lay contentedly in his arms watching the enigmatic Charlotte Rampling on the screen, the sense of closeness to him was profound, and heart warming. After all the self-imposed difficulties that they had endured, and the tests of their relationship that had come as a consequence of the hasty, contrived wedding, Laura was allowing herself to believe that their marriage would work out and that they could have a future together. A happy future.

Laura was naturally a skeptic where matters of the human heart were concerned; prickly and defensive, not only because her father had walked out on his family when she was sixteen, but also because of the emotional distance that existed between herself and her mother, and even between herself and Frances to a lesser extent. But the road she and Remington had walked had been so tortured, their courtship so scattered with missteps, that no one in their right mind, she thought, could be blamed for expecting that it would never work out. And so, Laura had never let herself believe in its success anywhere near wholeheartedly.

Ever protective of her emotional self-esteem, Laura knew she had kept Remington at bay, never giving of herself fully, never allowing true feelings of intimacy to develop with him. Not sleeping with him had been a consequence of that, rather than the other way around.

She realized now that she had made herself be alone for a long time. Yes, there had been dating, and an affair of sorts with Norman Maxwell, and the closer relationship with Remington during the last twelve months or so; but she had been protecting herself from _really_ letting anyone in since she was twenty-four, when Wilson had walked out on her. Six long years! It felt good now to be in a man's arms – a lover's arms – and not be plagued by feelings that things would inevitably go wrong, but instead to allow a bit of faith to develop that things would work out. Being involved emotionally with someone – who happened, of course, to be married to her – was no longer a source of trepidation but something to be embraced. Laura had seldom felt it could be that way during her life – more often her relationships with others had left her feeling hollowed out rather than fulfilled.

The movie ended and Remington stirred, dragging Laura's attention back from her reflections as he flicked off the television with the remote control. "Hmm…" she said, as Steele maneuvered himself away from her for a second to turn on a lamp on the side table, "What did you think of it?"

"It rather dragged, I thought – could've used a better script and pacier direction. But Charlotte Rampling was, as usual, magnetic."

"She's beautiful, no doubt about it," Laura agreed, as she snuggled into his embrace again.

"Thank you for watching it with me, Laura; I know you're not the film _aficionado_ that I am. Actually, I'm not sure that it was the best use of anyone's two hours, but the setting interested me, so I wanted to catch it if possible."

"Don't thank me; I enjoyed spending some quiet time together. But why was the setting so interesting – did you spend time with the gypsies in your mysterious past?"

"Ha! No, no, no...but you know I spent a lot of time in the South of France – the Rivera mostly, of course, but also Marseille, Montpellier and the rest of the region. But I never went to the Camargue, so I wanted to see it on the screen."

"You know, from the movie, it looked a little like the Louisiana bayous, I thought."

"Uh-huh...I can see what you mean."

"There's something about such places: salt flats, swamplands, offshore islands…they're in-between places – not quite earthly. Mysterious. It's the same when we go to Catalina – we're so cut off from day-to-day reality here in LA."

"Mysterious is right – remember _Deliverance?_"

"John Voight, Burt Reynolds, Warner Brothers, 1972 – four city dwellers on holiday are tortured by Georgia backcountry hicks."

"Ah, you know Laura, I think my movie tutelage has really rubbed off on you!" said Steele, smiling.

"Do you miss it – the South of France, I mean? You know – Saint Tropez and Monte Carlo...mysterious countesses...clambering across rooftops in the moonlight with stolen jewels...and all that?" Laura asked suddenly, taking him by surprise.

Steele paused before answering. His first instinct was to dissemble, if not lie directly. But then he remembered their recent past, the conversations he had had with Laura and the resolution he had made – not to her but to himself – to try and change, to try and be open, and the realization he'd come to that too little honesty rather than too much honesty in their relationship had often been the source of their difficulties.

"The truth is…I don't. It's a part of my history, but it's past and I don't want to revisit it…" Laura squeezed his hand which was around her waist. "I spent a large part of my life wandering about, Laura, I think because I did not fit in anywhere – nowhere was home. That hasn't been the case for a few years, now; Los Angeles is home. I've told you many times before, I stayed because I wanted to…I'm not sure you ever believed it was the truth, but...I've stayed because of you. You're my home," he ended quietly.

"I believe you," said Laura, turning in his arms and kissing him tenderly.

They stayed entwined for a few minutes, neither speaking. Remington then said, "Hmm...I hate to break the mood, but we ought to talk about this afternoon, don't you think?"

Laura, who had closed her eyes and had been falling half-asleep as she lay in Remington's embrace, said, "Later. I don't want to think about work right now."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Laura adjusted the straps on her brassiere, then checked her pantyhose for any snags and wrinkles. When she was satisfied, she went to her closet and took out the dress that she planned on wearing to work that day.

It wouldn't have surprised anyone who knew Laura that she was, as in so many things, exceptionally organized when it came to her morning routine. Her procedure every night since she had been a girl had been to consider her schedule for the following day, and to have all her clothes carefully selected and hanging ready at her fingertips for when she had to get dressed the next morning.

Laura had decided the night before to dress slightly less formally this morning, and she had laid out a vintage Jay Herbert, lilac slubbed silk 'wiggle' dress, which came with a matching bolero jacket. Because the dress was quite figure-hugging, Laura – who usually preferred to wear a full slip – had contented herself with wearing only a brassier and panties today, together with her flesh-colored pantyhose. The dress, which dated from the early Sixties, delighted her with its versatility: when she was wearing the long sleeved bolero jacket, the dress appeared to be a figure-hugging but still modestly low cut, three-quarter length ensemble appropriate for office wear; as soon as she took off the jacket, the dress was transformed into a sleeveless, strappy, quite sexy number. Laura had picked the dress up for only a few dollars at a vintage clothing boutique which she had begun to revisit.

Her taste in clothing seemed to have been coming full circle recently. When she had been younger, she had loved vintage fashion, and had spent a lot of time in specialist boutiques and at flea markets hunting out old clothing, especially formal and office wear. With her slim, slightly boyish figure, the close-fitting suits of the Fifties and early Sixties – the Jackie Kennedy silhouette – had been perfect for her, and she had built up quite a collection of such vintage outfits during her twenties. Most of those clothes, unfortunately, had been destroyed when her house had been blown up, much to Laura's sadness; almost none of her possessions, beyond a couple of things that had been at the cleaner's or had been loaned to friends, had survived.

Before her house had been destroyed and she had lost – almost literally – every stitch of clothing that she had, Laura had never realized how fundamental people's relationships with their clothing could be – that 'clothes alter our very nature', as Jerome K Jerome had once said. Laura was a person who was especially interested in clothes and fashion, of course; but even for someone like, say, Murphy Michaels – who shopped at outlet stores and didn't much care what he wore – the clothes in their closet carried a weight of personal history. If she had allowed herself to dwell on it, even after all this time it would still have pained Laura to think of what she had lost in the explosion; not just the perfect 'little black dress', as one example, but also – to cite another – the Stanford sweatshirt that her first college boyfriend had given her. She could buy a replacement Stanford sweatshirt, but she could never get back the associated memory and meaning of the one that had been lost.

In the three years after the explosion, Laura had built up her wardrobe more or less from scratch, and with more contemporary items. She had come to appreciate the modern, working women's fashion of designers like Carole Little, Donna Karan and Anne Klein; they were mid-priced rather than _haute couture_, and relatively middle of the road and acceptable for wearing to work compared to the extravagance of some of the 'hot' designers of the 1980s. While Laura quite liked the current decade's shoulder padded, power dressing silhouette – it gave her curves which she naturally did not have – Laura could never see herself wearing some of the more extravagant suits of, say, Thierry Mugler or Gianni Versace. She definitely didn't want to dress like the women on _Dynasty_. And then recently, she had started visiting second hand clothing boutiques again, picking up the occasional vintage item that was similar to something she might well have bought seven or eight years earlier.

Laura turned towards the bed, and flicked a glance at the nightstand; it was almost seven-thirty, and Remington was still asleep, lying on his back on the left side of the bed. He was not, of course, a morning person and since they had been living together, it had become their normal routine for Laura to rise first and use the bathroom, while he had a lie-in. Quite often, they even followed totally separate routines and headed into the office in their own cars. Remington never had any problems sleeping right through Laura's alarm call, and this morning was seemingly impervious to the sound of KROT that was coming out of the bedside clock-radio. But today, they were supposed to travel together, and it was getting late, even by his standards.

Laura went up to the bed and shook him gently on the shoulder. "Remington – wake up. We have to go to work. I need you to do up my zipper."

"I'm coming mother," said Steele, apparently in the depths of a dream.

Laura shook him again, slightly more vigorously, "Remington? Please get up. We'll be late!"

Steele, slowly emerging into consciousness, opened his eyes, and once he had adjusted to the sunlight flooding their bedroom, managed to focus on Laura. "Eh?"

"It's seven-thirty. You must wake up."

"Five minutes more, Laura?"

"I'm afraid not. Fred will be here at eight-fifteen. So will you _please_ get out of bed!"

Laura picked up the jewelry she had laid out the night before – a short string of small pearls that was almost a choker, and matching single-pearl earrings – and went into the bathroom to apply her makeup in front of the big mirror. Months into their marriage and sharing Steele's apartment, Laura was having to keep her toiletries and do her makeup in the bathroom, as she still did not have a dressing table; it was something that bothered her. After she had finished making up, she pulled the front of her hair back – her bangs had completely grown out now – and clipped it in place with two barrettes, one on each side of her head, and some bobby pins. When she had finished her grooming, she came back into the bedroom, to see that Steele was still lying in bed.

Laura walked to her side of the bed, and leaning over it, began to push the inert body of her husband towards the edge of his side of the bed. He was heavy, but he started to move. As he felt himself being pushed, Steele snapped awake. "Laura?" he queried.

Laura ignored him and kept pushing. Steele flailed his right arm, trying to get some purchase, as he felt himself sliding closer to the edge of the bed. "Laura! What the hell are you doing?" he shouted.

"I'm sorry, dear, but I did warn you!" said Laura good naturedly, still pushing Steele. "You have to get out of bed. Even if that means I have to tumble you onto the floor!"

"Alright, alright! I'm awake!" said Steele, stiffening his body to make himself heavier and prevent Laura from actually pushing him over the edge. He sat up and turned to glare at Laura, who was smiling sweetly at him, her dimples on full power. "You're mad – do you know that, woman?" he said grumpily.

"Drastic measures, Mr Steele," replied his wife. Laura came around the bed just as Steele got up, and stood in front of him with her back to him. "Will you zip me up, please?" she asked.

Steele pulled her hair out of the way, and pulled up the zipper of the lilac dress, noticing – despite his morning grogginess – how form-fitting it was. "You look beautiful in the morning," he said, kissing the side of her neck, and then trotted off for a shower.

While Remington went into the bathroom, Laura made the bed. She then slipped on the matching bolero jacket to her dress and a pair of black, high-heeled suede pumps. After checking her reflection in one of the full length mirrors that formed the doors to their closets, she picked up her purse and headed for the kitchen. "How do you want your toast?" she asked on her way out, but there was only a grunt in reply from Remington, who was in the shower and could hardly hear her.

Steele hadn't washed his hair that morning, so after exiting the shower, a quick comb through, a shave and a splash of aftershave were all that were required, before he came out of the bathroom to dress.

Although he was more improvisational and intuitive than the logical, orderly Laura – in a curious way, his mind possessed more typically-feminine qualities while Laura's mind worked in a masculine way – he could be highly organized when he wanted to be. When it came to his wardrobe, he was certainly methodical: Remington Steele never showed up wrinkled and never, ever, simply threw on something to wear. When Steele dressed for the office during the working week, he carefully selected the ensemble he would wear; it was just a knack – one that most men shared – that he was able to get dressed quickly and smoothly, without the dozen time-consuming routines, from makeup to jewelry, that women had to go through.

This morning, he picked out the slate blue, birdseye cloth, double breasted suit which he had decided to wear the night before. The suit was cut in the latest, mid-1980s style: it was loosely-draped, with big shoulder pads and baggy pants, and displayed the unmistakable influence on menswear of Giorgio Armani and the silhouette that had become fashionable during the last few years. The suit, though, was not an Armani or any other designer, but had been custom made for Steele by his tailor. Ever since he had first acquired a bit of money, and under the influence of Daniel Chalmers – who had been quite a dandy – Remington had preferred the luxury and perfect fit of bespoke tailoring. A man could walk into Saks in Beverly Hills or another high-end store and see a rack of identical Armani suits for sale, however expensive they were; but a bespoke suit was unique, a single item made solely by the tailor for a particular customer – the product of the almost mystical bond that existed between a well dressed gentleman and his tailor. In Steele's case, since he had arrived in America, he had had his suits made for him by Enzo Caruso, the third generation of a family of Neapolitan tailors who were now based in Santa Monica.

Steele matched his blue birdseye suit with a white poplin dress shirt from his favorite shirt maker, Hilditch & Key, of London's Jermyn Street. White cotton dress shirts made things simple, there was no doubt about that. With blue suit and white shirt donned within a couple of minutes, Steele added a Franco Bassi bronze silk tie and taupe silk pocket square to the ensemble, slipped into a pair of black, laced Church's shoes and was fully dressed. Once he had put his wallet, lighter, keys and mini-notebook in his pockets, he was good to go. He glanced at his Longines watch – it was still five minutes of eight o'clock – plenty of time for breakfast! And to think, Laura had worried that he would be late for work if he had slept in any longer. When would she learn, eh?

When Steele wandered into the kitchen, Laura was leaning on the counter, writing on a piece of paper while munching on a slice of toast. "Good morning, Laura!" said Remington cheerfully.

"Oh, awake now, are we, sleepyhead?"

"Indeed, indeed," he replied, pouring coffee from the machine into a mug.

"I made toast," said Laura, waving a hand at the plate in front of her. "Help yourself. It's that special jam from Harrods that you like." Remington had a particular fondness for a blackcurrant jelly from the famous London department store, and he had ordered a dozen jars via air freight some time before. Laura found it all a little inexplicable; blackcurrant jelly – or 'jam' as Remington called it – tasted all the same to her, wherever it came from. But like so many of Remington's slightly old fashioned habits, from the exquisite formality of his dress to his very British addiction to tea, she suspected it was a mixture of ingrained habit and a bit of snobbery.

Steele grabbed a slice of toast from their shared plate. "What are you doing?"

"Writing a note to Maria."

Remington glanced at his watch; it was a few minutes past eight o'clock. "Fred won't be here for another ten minutes; I could have had a longer lie-in, Laura," he said, slightly reproachfully.

"I'm glad you're a quick dresser, Remington, but it was getting rather late. Anyway, it might be a good thing; we can actually get to the office early, perhaps?"

Steele sounded baffled, "Early? Is there any point in being early to the office?"

"To get things done, Mr Steele. Why dawdle? The early bird catches the worm, you know!"

"Harrumph..." Remington grunted. Laura assumed the sound was meant to indicate his skepticism about what she had said.

As they stood having their breakfast at the kitchen counter, Nero wandered in and started rubbing himself against Laura's leg. She bent down and picked him up, and cuddled him for a minute or two, then carried him to the terrace to put him outside for the day. As she came back in, the telephone rang; as expected, it was Fred in the limousine waiting for them. Steele and Laura finished their coffee and then headed downstairs for the drive into work. It was pretty much exactly eight-fifteen and, to Laura's relief, they were on schedule for another day at Remington Steele Investigations.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

"Thank you, Fred," said Laura to their chauffeur, as he held the door of the Cadillac Fleetwood open for her. Once she and Steele were settled in the back seat, Fred pulled out of the carriageway of 5994 North Rossmore Avenue, into the commuter traffic of a typical Los Angeles morning.

Remington had put his Ray-Bans on, and now closed his eyes, settled back into the seat and crossed his arms in front of him, hoping to catch forty winks on the trip to the office. He was lucky enough to have the knack of being able to sleep anywhere at any time.

"Remington," said Laura. "You can't sleep now."

"Hmm?" said Steele, doing his best to try and ignore her.

"What are we going to do about this Farndale business? It's been on my mind since Tony Roselli and that man Alec Trevelyan came to the office yesterday."

"Let's talk about it later, eh?" said Steele, wriggling deeper into the car seat and stretching his legs out in front of him.

"Wake up, Mr Steele. It's the working day, now," said Laura, nudging Remington.

"Laura, please..."

"Pleading with me won't help. We need to focus. So no sleeping – it's not efficient!"

"Hngff..." muttered Remington, pulling himself upright and opening his eyes. "That's what I love about you Laura…you're so bloody perky in the mornings!"

Laura smiled angelically at Steele, as he took off his sunglasses and turned to face her. "So, what are we going to do?" she asked again.

"Er, help MI6 and the CIA, I suppose."

"You want to?"

"You don't?"

"I'm still furious about yesterday," answered Laura, looking out of her window at the traffic on Beverly Boulevard. "I don't like being manipulated into doing things."

"Ah, fair enough! I really don't like that Trevelyan fellow, either. But we're in it now, aren't we?"

"There's no obligation on _us_. They can't make us co-operate – we're not professional spies."

"Well, one thing that can be said: it'll be an adventure if we do get involved – bluffing the Russians. I'd rather enjoy pulling the wool over Petrossian's eyes, certainly."

"An adventure? What about the danger, Remington? This is the KGB we're talking about – I don't think they take any prisoners if they're betrayed."

"Oh, come on Laura! We take risks all the time – we're hardly greenhorns. And danger comes with the territory, as Tony Roselli said."

"Tony? Don't mention him to me right now! I'm more-than-annoyed with him for pushing us into something like this, when we're supposed to be his friends."

Steele clenched his jaw unconsciously. "Friends? That's a little strong, isn't it? He's a fellow who insinuated himself into our company, for what turned out to be his own reasons. I'd hardly call him a friend."

Laura knew she was on tricky ground. "You're right. Not a friend, exactly, but someone we know...At least, someone I thought who owed us, given that we stopped him being captured by the police; and someone that we had a mutual obligation to, for fixing your immigration problems."

"Someone who wanted to seduce you, Laura!" said Steele, looking at her with an unreadable expression on his face. "Let's not mince words, eh?"

Laura bristled, "What's that supposed to mean? That was all in the past! And Tony Roselli never had _any _chance with me – remember that, okay?"

"Good!"

"But I still thought he was someone we...had reached a new understanding with. Not someone who'd use us – again."

"If that's what you thought, then you shouldn't have, Missy! We may have helped him in Ireland, but he's only interested in his own agenda. He's a very ambivalent character, our Anthony. He's no altruist. He's _definitely_ not a friend." Steele, strumming his fingers on the arm rest, made an effort to keep his voice calm and bit back some of the jealous words that he really wanted to say about Roselli's pursuit of Laura.

"Fine! I agree with you. Tony's just as involved in this as Trevelyan – which is why I don't really want to have any part of the whole scheme. I don't like putting my fate in someone else's hands, especially if there's no guarantee that they can be trusted."

Remington raised an eyebrow quizzically. "Are there ever any guarantees in life, Laura – of safety or anything else? And while you might not like the messengers, what about the message, eh?"

"What do you mean?"

"They may be a couple of slippery, manipulative characters – but what they said had some merit. They're fighting the fight against the Russians – the 'Evil Empire' – and ultimately, they're on our side."

"So now is the time for all good men – and women – to come to the aid of their country? Or countries? Is that it?"

Steele smiled thinly. "I'm an American citizen now, remember. But as Trevelyan pointed out, if they – MI6 and the CIA – have said they need our help, can we refuse? Is your objection that Trevelyan and Roselli manipulated us, and that it might be personally dangerous? Or would it go against your liberal instincts to help them?"

"What? Why should it go against my liberal instincts to come to the aid of my country?" asked Laura sharply.

"Well...Aren't you liberal types more ambivalent about that? Don't you question the very idea of patriotism? That's what conservatives would say – even the President thinks that Democrats are soft on defending America," said Remington, his face an expressionless mask.

Laura frowned. "For God's sake! That's the same slur that's made all the time. Are the only patriotic people the conservatives who wrap themselves in the flag and take an absolutely inflexible, adamantine view of things? I may have liberal views and I may be a Democrat, but that _doesn't _mean that I don't also believe in my country!"

"No, no, no…of course not. But Roselli did ask a pertinent question, didn't he? What are you – we – prepared to risk in support of those beliefs, hmm?"

"I'm surprised to hear _you_ invoke patriotism, Remington," said Laura, scowling hard. She looked to Steele as if she was close to really blowing her stack.

"Oh, I'm not..." he replied, putting a hand on her forearm in a peace-making gesture; Steele often touched Laura to express his feelings when his usual stream of words were inadequate. "You know I'm not political. I'm just raising the question, that's all – playing devil's advocate, if you like."

"Look at this Iran-Contra affair that's all over the news right now. I'll bet Tony and his CIA cronies were up to their necks in that fiasco! The idea that whatever is right for the country – which really means, whatever _they say_ is right for the country – is justified is what probably created the whole sorry mess. I bet Oliver North and Caspar Weinberger are waiting to claim 'the national interest' for breaking a dozen laws! And conservatives will be lining up to fête them.

"Trevelyan and Tony are using us, Marisa, Farndale – everything is grist to the mill for them. Whatever or whoever they have to exploit to achieve their goal is deemed acceptable, maybe even expendable. Does defending national security mean ignoring if an action is right or wrong? Life's too complex to take such a simplistic view of things."

"Perhaps, Laura – perhaps. I was once…morally flexible, shall we say? And then, I met a girl – a beautiful, upright, compassionate girl who had a rigid ethical code...She knew what was right and wrong in her own mind – and she was usually quite adamant about it! Oh, but she changed me – every day, just a little...making me a better man. So maybe sometimes, what's right and wrong _is_ straightforward, hmm?"

Laura stared at Remington, speechless. At last she said, "I guess it was _personal_ for that girl...it wasn't an abstract discussion about what's patriotic or what's right or wrong for the national interest."

"Oh, absolutely...Ultimately, it's the personal that always counts as the most important thing, isn't it? I told Trevelyan I didn't believe in causes – but there's nothing in the world more important to me than that beautiful, upright, compassionate girl."

Laura felt her anger dissipate; she placed her hand on Remington's. That was as close as he ever usually came to a declaration of love. "And if it is so straightforward, Mr Steele, then what would you say we should do?"

"Ah, well...like you, I'm not happy about the way we've been used by Roselli and Trevelyan. But I think we have to get over that, and decide what is the _right_ thing to do."

"I never thought I'd see the day that you were arguing about ethical choices," Laura said, with a wistful smile. "You seem to have turned into an upright citizen, Mr Steele."

"I owe it all to you, Mrs Steele – I owe it all to you!"

Laura looked out of her window; they were approaching Century City, and the twin towers loomed up ahead. "I suppose we have to go along with this, don't we? If for no other reason, than it'll help Marisa?"

"Not especially...After all, we don't _really _know her. But taken altogether...there are a lot of reasons for us to get involved and they seem to over-balance the reasons for us to stay out of it."

Laura sighed; she knew Remington was right, even though she couldn't help but worry about the potential dangers of the espionage game. Ever since she'd really allowed herself to admit that she loved Remington and they were pretty happy together, in the deepest recesses of her mind she had become aware that she had a lot more at stake now than she had had in the past. It made her more cognizant of the dangers of their profession than she had been when she was young, carefree and single.

"I suppose you're right, Mr Steele. We can't really stay out of it," she said, as the car drew up outside their building.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

"Where are the KGB?" asked Laura, keeping her voice steady with an effort despite the tension she was feeling.

"Don't look round, Laura," said the disembodied voice in her ear. "They're watching you. They're in a blue Chevy Impala, about thirty yards behind you and parked on the other side of the street. But like I said, take it easy. We're keeping an eye on them."

Laura glanced at the clock on the dash of the darkened Rabbit; it was just after ten at night. She and Remington were stationed in her car outside Nigel Farndale's place, a modern four-story block in a residential street near Magnolia Boulevard in Burbank. They were waiting for the right time to break in and steal back the computer disks that Farndale had supposedly copied from Defense Analytics earlier that evening. While she and Steele were watching Farndale's place, they were being watched by the KGB. And both cars were in turn being watched by the CIA, in the person of Tony Roselli, whose voice it had been coming through her earpiece.

"I was just trying to get the layout clear – that's all," said Laura, slightly untruthfully. There was a little crinkle between her eyes, which she got when she was worried.

"There are only two KGB guys on you. Earlier today, we swept your office, your home and your cars for bugs but there weren't any, so the KGB can't hear you. Of course, _we_ got you bugged every which way."

"At least you asked our permission this time, Tony," said Laura with a hint of asperity.

"Yeah, well...Anyway, right now Laura, we got four cars with agents ready to do a rolling tail on you, or the KGB guys, or both cars if necessary. We'll be watching you. And you can't see them, but there are snipers with night vision scopes somewhere around; if the KGB goons try anything – which I doubt – their orders are to protect the integrity of the mission."

"That's what worries me, Anthony," said Remington, who had been chewing on a toothpick distractedly. "If those KGB roughhousers go for us, are your snipers going to protect the mission, or protect us, eh?"

"What, don'tcha trust me? You'll be protected – both of you, alright?" said Tony, in a tone that seemed to reflect the smile that was no doubt on his face as he spoke. Aware that every word that they said could be heard by Roselli and the CIA, Remington turned to Laura and raised an eyebrow in a gesture of skepticism.

"So, run over the situation report, will you Tony?" said Laura into thin air.

"We know the KGB have been watching the two of you – nothing specific, just keeping an eye on you. I don't think that the two guys in the Impala have been given any orders except to follow you, so there really isn't _that_ much danger, Laura."

"When they see us breaking into Farndale's apartment, they might decide to become proactively involved!"

"I won't lie to you – it's possible," said Tony into Laura's earpiece. "But these KGB guys are generally real hierarchical...they wait for orders, they don't take the initiative."

"Gee, thanks, Tony. That's very comforting to know."

"Anyway, Farndale called Petrossian at about nine, and told him he had successfully gotten into the computer records room at DAL earlier this evening, after most of the employees had gone home for the day. The two of them set up a meeting for tomorrow, to exchange the disks for the money. Farndale was acting kinda cocky, kinda high on his success on the phone – I was standing next to him when he made the call. Anyway, Petrossian told him the usual stuff – well done, don't draw attention to yourself now, follow your usual routine, that kinda thing. So pretty soon now, Farndale will head out to a late night gambling club – like he does every Friday. And then you two will break into his apartment and retrieve the disks. Just make sure the two KGB guys _see_ you breaking in, you know? We want Petrossian to figure out that you've 'stolen' them back – so don't be too discreet when you burglarize the place!"

"Since you've plotted out all the other moves in such intricate detail, why didn't you just provide us with a key to Farndale's apartment, eh?" asked Remington.

"Hey, I figured you wouldn't need any help where breakin' in was concerned, judging from your past experience, Steele. It's right up your street, right?"

"Oh, how droll you are," said Remington, again raising his eyebrow at Laura as they sat in the darkened car. "And are we not going to have the pleasure of your British colleague's presence tonight?"

"Alec? Nah, this is strictly a CIA operation tonight. It's kinda straightforward stuff, you know? Just surveillance. Alec's probably in his hotel room somewhere, trying to solve a chess puzzle or something."

Despite her state of nerves, Laura laughed at Tony's joke. She could just see the bloodless Trevelyan spending his Friday evening in front of a chess board. Alone. "So, Anthony," said Steele, "I suppose that makes Trevelyan the brains and you the muscle, eh?"

"You're a real funny guy, Steele – you know that? A real funny guy."

Remington and Laura continued to watch the front entrance to Farndale's apartment block. They were both dressed in their 'break in' clothes; in Laura's case, one of her all black jumpsuits, black Converse All Stars and her black English flat cap, while Remington had donned black turtleneck, jeans and leather jacket. This was a scene – a situation – that they had both been in dozens of times before, although it was weird for Laura to think that while they surveilled Farndale's place, they were being watched in turn by perhaps ten or fifteen other sets of eyes.

Laura shivered. She wasn't sure whether it was because of her nervous excitement or because of the temperature; with the engine off and no heater, the Rabbit was rather cooler than she would have liked. It was a cloudless, early winter night – beautiful but not warm – and as Laura looked out of the car window, she could see a crescent moon suspended in the night sky, like a sideways smile drawn on an inky canvas.

"Tell me Anthony, are you a fight fan?" Remington said into the ether.

"Nah, not really. Baseball's my game, you know? Why?"

"Oh, I just wondered who you fancied in the big match tomorrow night – the champ or this new fellow, Tyson?"

"Like I said, I dunno much about it."

"Everyone's writing Trevor Berbick off – and quite rightly in my opinion. I think Mike Tyson will make mincemeat out of him and become the new world champion," said Laura.

"You follow boxin'?"

"Why shouldn't I, Tony? Did you assume I couldn't be interested in it just because I'm a woman?"

"It's just a little surprisin', that's all…but I guess I shouldn'ta made any assumptions about it."

Laura smiled at her little victory over male prejudice. "Thank my husband for it. His pursuits these days are more sedate – golf and tennis – but he rather kindled my interest in it a few years ago, when I learned that he had boxed a little himself once."

"It's perfectly true, Anthony – Laura likes to keep an eye on the fight game as much as any other sport. Personally, I think it's all those sweaty, muscled men in shorts that are the real attraction."

"That aspect is certainly appealing," said Laura with a musical laugh.

At about ten-twenty, Laura saw the apartment block's main door open, and the easily recognizable figure of Nigel Farndale appeared, dressed in a dark suit and tie, and carrying a raincoat in his hand. He went to his car parked in the street out front and drove away. "I guess you saw – Farndale's gone," said Tony Roselli into their earpieces. "It's up to you now."

Laura reached out in the dark and squeezed Remington's hand for an instant in a gesture of togetherness; she was glad to feel him return the pressure. Then they stepped out of the Rabbit and strolled towards Farndale's apartment block. "Remember Laura, don't look behind you – the KGB aren't supposed to know that we know they're there," said Remington.

"So, what's the plan?" asked Laura. "Go down the side alley, maybe climb the fire escape in back?"

"Actually, I thought we'd use the front door," said Remington, as they walked up the path from the street. The entrance was well lit, with two big wall lights flanking the front door, but there were no security cameras. Steele bent down and picked the lock; he picked it within a couple of seconds, but stayed crouched over the lock for longer, to make sure that the watching KGB agents saw him. Once they were inside, they called for the elevator to go to the second floor. "Farndale's place is at the front, overlooking the street," said Remington. "Once we've made it inside, we'll turn on the lights for a few seconds, just to make sure the KGB realizes that we _are_ actually inside."

"This is a bit mundane, isn't it?" asked Laura in a whisper, as they rode up in the elevator. "I thought we'd get to climb a rope ladder, or disable an alarm system with liquid nitrogen or something."

"Mundane? You know Laura, for such a straight arrow, it seems to me you've become rather too fond of some of our nocturnal excursions."

"Have I?"

"Do you remember the Conant Gallery incident? You practically tore my clothes off!"

"Well, perhaps, Mr Steele. I blame you, anyway – you corrupted me."

"I corrupted _you_? Hmm..."

"While this is kinda interesting to listen to, I thought I should remind you that I can hear everything you two are saying, ya know?" Tony Roselli's voice sounded in both their ears.

Laura felt herself blushing, while Remington merely smiled like the cat that had gotten the cream. The tiny radio transmitters that the CIA had given them had no wires, and consisted of a small earpiece no larger than a pea, and a separate microphone, about the size and shape of a dime, which they had both had taped to their throats just above their collar bone. They were so unobtrusive that it was easy to forget that the transmitters were there at all. Neither Laura or Remington, who both had a lot of experience with surveillance and bugging equipment, had ever seen such sophisticated technology before.

When they reached Apartment 202, Steele picked the lock and they both slipped inside. As they flicked their flashlights about, they saw that the place was a rental, and looked suitably anonymous; it was decorated in a very up-to-date style, with wooden flooring and white walls, and was all hard surfaces – only the suite in the living room provided any softness to offset the 1980s chrome and slate decor. Tony's voice came through again, "Farndale has taped the disks to the back of the refrigerator."

"How novel," said Steele.

"Yeah, well it's free standing so it should be easy to get them."

"Laura," Steele said to his partner in crime, "let's make sure the KGB know we are in here. Flick on the main lights for a few seconds, as if by accident. The blinds are open, so if those Russian chappies are doing their job, they should see the lights come on and go off." Laura did as Steele suggested, while he went into the kitchen and retrieved the computer disks – there were five in all, taped together in a bundle.

"All done?" she asked.

"Uh-huh. Let's go."

They left the apartment as they had come, but this time using the stairs rather than the elevator. As they stepped out of the front door of the building, Tony's voice came over the little earpieces, "The Russians definitely know something is up – they're having some kinda intense discussion between themselves, but they don't look like they're going to get outta their car. I'm watching them right now."

"Let us know if they make a move, won't you?" said Remington, on alert in case the KGB agents did decide to come after Laura and him.

"Gotcha. Listen Steele, Laura – just get in your car and head home and get dressed as planned, okay? Like I said, we'll be tailing you all the time. We won't let the KGB hurt you – so don't worry."

"I suppose we're in your hands then, eh, Anthony?"

"Good thing you trust me, huh?"


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Remington Steele turned slightly in his chair to look through the floor-to-ceiling picture windows at the view stretching out before him. It was impressive.

What was it about a spectacular view that enthralled human beings so? Steele didn't consider himself a contemplative person – he was a creature of sensation, who lived from moment to moment – yet even he was moved to pause and reflect when confronted with a spectacular vista. The view, for example, from his office still enthralled him after all these years, even though Remington Steele Investigations was situated only on the eleventh floor of the Century Plaza Towers. And tonight, looking out over the twinkling lights of Los Angeles from the cocktail lounge on the thirty-fourth story of the Bonaventure Hotel, Steele was even more captivated. The skyscrapers of Downtown, which were next door to – and all around – the Bonaventure, were fire-lit mountains in the foreground; beyond, he could see the lights of low rise Los Angeles stretching away towards the horizon, like a sparkling carpet. He was reminded of the famous shot of Los Angeles at night – a sea of lights – in Spielberg's _ET_. As he watched the view, it changed subtly from second to second, as the Bonaventure's cocktail lounge slowly revolved on its giant hydraulic mechanism. If one stayed here long enough, eventually the room would complete a full three-hundred-and-sixty degree rotation.

Steele looked around him at the elegantly dressed and affluent crowd. At eleven-thirty on a Friday night, it was all go at the Bona Vista Lounge, as people arrived from dinner parties and restaurants for a few late night drinks. Everyone was of early to late middle age – this was not a place for the impecunious in their twenties. Steele himself was dressed to the nines in a tailor-made, three-piece tuxedo, adorned with a Double Albert watch chain on his vest and a white silk handkerchief in his breast pocket.

A waiter approached the table and asked if he wanted anything; Steele ordered another round of cocktails – a whiskey sour for himself and a Tom Collins for both Laura and Marisa Peters. Once the waiter had left, he continued to peruse the crowd while sipping his drink and waiting for the women to return from the restroom.

A pale, dark haired man of about forty, wearing a nondescript business suit, approached his table. "I must speak to you, English," he said without any preamble, in a foreign accent; he sounded Russian, Steele thought.

"My name's Steele, not English. Do I know you?"

"We have met. About six months ago. In Ireland...at the Soviet Embassy. My name is Petrossian."

A glimmer of recognition came into Steele's eyes. "Ah, I remember now. Something tells me this is not a coincidence, Mr Petrossian? Correct?"

"That is correct, Mr Steele."

"Er, look...if you're here for some kind of reckoning, you should know that I had nothing to do with the Kemadov affair directly. I'm a private citizen...it just happened that an American official decided to arrange your man's defection while staying in my home – my castle. That's all."

"I know, Mr Steele. The KGB knows all about you, and your role in that affair. There was a considerable internal inquiry into that fiasco, believe me. May I sit?"

Steele waved the man to a chair. "You're KGB?"

Petrossian nodded. "I am lucky enough to hold that distinction. So believe me when I say that the KGB knows you were a simple pawn in that failed defection of Kemadov. If we had thought that you were CIA, or were involved in that affair voluntarily, believe me, we would have...ensured you were made aware of the cost of that involvement."

"I don't like the sound of that, Petrossian. It sounds like a threat?"

"You're safe, Mr Steele – at least over the Irish matter."

"Then why are you here?"

"I've come over another matter...Farndale."

Recognition flashed momentarily across Steele's face, before he controlled his features and made his expression impassive, but Petrossian noticed the look. "What is Farndale?" Steele asked innocently.

Before Petrossian could speak, Steele saw Laura and Marisa Peters walking back towards their table. As Laura approached, she smiled warmly. She was dressed in a dark red, strapless taffeta 'sarong' cocktail dress by Victor Costa that came down just below the knee, and matching dark red high heels. Although in evening wear, she had left her hair down and loose. She had on a lot of jewelry – no watch, as was her habit, but gold half-moon earrings, her Peppler wedding band, her signet ring, and a chain with a circular gold Correia pendant. Marisa was wearing a full length, long sleeved, black chiffon evening gown, coupled with pearls. As they approached the table, Petrossian and Steele stood; Laura said "I didn't realize we had company, Remington. Who's your friend?"

Marisa had immediately recognized Petrossian, and looked pale. "I know that man! That's Petrossian – from the Russian Embassy in Dublin!"

Petrossian bowed formally in acknowledgement of Marisa's observation, and by way of greeting to the ladies. "Miss Peters is correct. She remembers clearly, obviously. Mrs Steele: I am Petrossian, attached to the Consulate of the Soviet People's Republic, here in Los Angeles."

Laura's smile had disappeared, replaced with a puzzled look. "Are we interrupting something? What are you doing with my husband, Mr Petrossian?" she asked, as she and Marisa sat down.

"No, no, no, Laura...Mr Petrossian was about to leave, I think," said Remington with a smile.

Petrossian planted himself back in his chair, ignoring Steele's hint. "I am afraid, Mr Steele, that I cannot leave. We still have not discussed Farndale."

"Farndale!" snapped Laura, suddenly alert. "How do you know about him? What's going on here?"

Petrossian stared gimlet-eyed at Laura. "As I was just about to explain to your husband, Mr Farndale works for me."

"You! Of course...you put him up to taking the computer information. Remington, let's go. We shouldn't be talking to this man – he's obviously with Soviet intelligence."

"Please Mrs Steele, do not leave yet. Listen to me. I know about you and your husband...more than you can imagine."

"What do you know?"

The waiter arrived with the drinks. Having served Steele, Marisa and Laura, he asked if anything else was wanted; Steele answered, "Bring vodka for my friend, here. Cold and neat – correct?"

Petrossian nodded his acquiescence, and once the waiter had departed, continued, "Mrs Steele, as I was saying, I am aware that your agency is working for Defense Analytics on a security assessment. I know that for the last few days, you have been watching Nigel Farndale. More importantly, I know that earlier tonight you stole some computer disks from his apartment."

Laura was surprised. "How could you know that?"

"I have my sources. The point is, why did you take those disks from Farndale's home? What are you going to do with them?"

"Why? Because he's a traitor, Mr Petrossian. As you say, we've been watching Farndale, and we knew that he had stolen confidential information from the company; and so Mr Steele took it back – from him."

"A daring ploy."

"That's why my husband is the most famous private investigator in this city. Any other detective agency...well, it would have gone through the proper procedures of notifying the FBI and alerting Defense Analytics about the theft of the computer information – but by that time the information might well have already been secreted out of the country. To steal the information back – that's the sort of brilliant, unexpected gambit that is typical of Remington Steele."

"You are correct, Mrs Steele. It was a clever move by your husband. What will you do with the information now?"

Remington answered, "The first thing tomorrow, we alert Defense Analytics about the breach of security, and we inform the FBI. I can guarantee that Farndale will be under arrest by lunchtime at the latest."

"There is another alternative, Mr Steele."

Marisa, who had been nervously sipping from her drink, now spoke for the first time, "Laura, Remington...you seem to be engrossed in something here. I don't want to intrude, so perhaps I'll just leave you to your discussion with Mr Petrossian, shall I? We can get together some other evening?"

"Remain, Miss Peters," ordered Petrossian. He nodded towards a table near the entrance, where two men in suits were talking over drinks. "My men are keeping a discreet eye on what is going on...if any one of you tries to leave, they will act."

"What are they going to do, old bean – shoot us here, in front of a hundred people?" asked Steele with a smile.

"My men – and I – have diplomatic immunity. It would be quite feasible for us to shoot you if we found it necessary."

Steele's smile vanished. "I don't like threats, Petrossian. You've outstayed your welcome."

"Just allow me to finish, Mr Steele. The presence of my men is just a precaution on my part. Believe me, the KGB does not really like violence."

Steele took a sip of his whiskey sour. "What do you want, Petrossian?"

"I want you to give me those disks."

Laura looked stunned. "What are you talking about? You're Russian Intelligence! We're breaking the law just by talking to you. Remington – let's leave. His men won't really do anything in front of all these people."

"Please, just listen to me, Mrs Steele." Petrossian paused to weigh his words. "You don't know, I think, what is on those disks. In fact, it is material associated with the Strategic Defense Initiative – the 'Star Wars'. Nigel Farndale is a humanist...he was taking that information to give to the USSR, so that the United States did not get the upper hand in the Cold War."

"The word for Farndale is traitor, not humanist. It's espionage, Mr Petrossian – illegal."

"It may have been legally wrong, but it was morally right."

"Ha!"

The waiter returned with a tray bearing a large shot glass of iced vodka, which he placed in front of the Russian. Once they were free to converse again, Petrossian said, "Mrs Steele, you are a woman of strong convictions, I can see. Think about this...for forty years, the doctrine of Mutual Assured Destruction has prevented the Cold War from becoming a full scale conflict. The Americans had so many nuclear weapons, and the Russians also, that both sides knew that if we went to war, we would all be destroyed."

"I know about MAD. What's your point?"

"The Star Wars project threatens that delicate balance that has held for forty years. If the Americans have a way to protect themselves from our ICBMs, they will have the upper hand. The threat to the world from this imbalance of power will affect everyone."

"Maybe the United States will have the upper hand, but so what? We are the good guys, Mr Petrossian. We can be trusted not to start anything!"

Remington smiled grimly, "Ah, Laura, didn't you ever see _Dr Strangelove _– Peter Sellers, Columbia, 1964? There are hard cases on both sides, I'd venture?"

"An unconventional analogy, but Mr Steele makes a good point. If either side gets too much power, the doctrine of MAD collapses, Mrs Steele. Can you not see that? Farndale was truly doing a service to humanity. And if you give me those disks, you would too."

Marisa now said, "Laura, Remington...this sounds highly dubious to me...I know from experience, it's best not to get involved with spies."

Petrossian stared at her coldly. "You do not know how astute an observation that is, in your case, Miss Peters. Unlike the Steeles, who were innocent bystanders, we know that you were an active participant in the Ashford Castle affair. You were assisting Kemadov to defect. Many people who have taken such a stance in opposition to the KGB have discovered it to be a fatal mistake." Marisa, recognizing the threat implicit in the Russian's observation, decided to say no more.

"Marisa – Miss Peters – is right, Mr Petrossian," said Laura. "Your rhetorical arguments about humanity are elegant, but Remington Steele Investigations knows what its obligations are: we have to inform the FBI of what happened, send the troops into DAL, and nail Farndale to the wall."

"My wife makes a telling point, Petrossian," said Remington thoughtfully. "Our legal – and patriotic, if you want to use such a jejune word – duty is clear. What could we possibly gain by giving away classified secrets to the KGB?"

"One answer I could give you is that it would keep you both alive." There was silence as everyone at the table allowed the KGB man's words to sink in.

"Those disks are in a place where no one except Laura and me can get at them," said Remington, his face hard. "If anything happens to us, Petrossian, no one will ever get hold of the disks."

"It was merely a hypothetical answer, Mr Steele. I told you, the KGB does not like violence." The Russian sipped his vodka, and stared at the three of them. "Very well! If you will not do it for humankind, perhaps you will do it for a more personal reason? I can offer you something more concrete than merely the knowledge that you've saved the world."

Remington let out a strained laugh, "Saved the world! Good Lord, Petrossian – aren't you overdoing it a bit, eh?"

"You're amused, I see. Ignore what I said. Let me offer you an exchange instead: those disks for something of value to you."

"What?"

"Information. Information about Robert Peters!"

Marisa, Laura and Remington were silent, and Petrossian admired the effect of his words. "You know about my father?" asked Marisa in a whisper.

"Indeed, Miss Peters. We know who you are, and the fact that you have been trying to find out about Robert Peters for over two years."

"Yes...That's why I got involved with Kemadov in the first place. He was going to find out about my father, in return for my help with his defection," Marisa said, slightly distorting the truth but sticking to the script that Trevelyan and Roselli had devised to fool Petrossian.

"I see. That explains why you became involved in the Irish situation in the first place. We wondered what your motive was. We even wondered if you might be CIA."

"I was an innocent dupe, that's all. I'm a civilian – a journalist. But that CIA man, Roselli, promised me information about my father if I helped him and Kemadov; of course, I never got the information because Kemadov died."

"Well, I can give you what Kemadov did not...information about your father."

"And that's you proposal?" asked Steele, with a sardonic smile. "Marisa – you're our friend, and we would do anything we could to help you in normal circumstances...but Mr Petrossian here is suggesting we engage in treason just so that you can find out some secondhand titbits about your father? It's hardly convincing, is it?"

"Remington, this is a chance for me. Laura? As my friends, you have the opportunity to help me!" Marisa Peters looked distraught, and her eyes began to glisten with wetness.

Laura reached across the table and held her hand, "I'm sorry Marisa, but I agree with Remington. Exchanging those disks for unreliable information...We could lose our license, go to jail...it can't be justified."

Steele was tugging his earlobe distractedly; Laura saw the gesture and knew that he had something cooking. "Uhm, I have a proposal, Petrossian, Marisa..."

"Yes?" said Petrossian.

"You've asked us to take an enormous risk...it's treason. Marisa: you are our friend, and we would like to help you, but the price is too high. But I think there is a way we could, perhaps, be persuaded to give up those disks, if Laura agrees."

"How, Mr Steele?" queried Petrossian.

"Information about Marisa's father is not enough. But if you could hand him over to us – release him – then we would be prepared to give you those disks, I think."

There was silence at the table, as everyone digested Steele's audacious proposal. Marisa had hope in her eyes; Petrossian was thinking hard as he stared at Remington Steele.

Laura took a sip of her Tom Collins, suppressing a smile; it was a typically outrageous suggestion from Remington. Up to now, the meeting had been going exactly as Trevelyan and Tony had planned, and Remington, Marisa and she had been acting their roles superbly, Laura thought. They had seemed to be reluctant to engage with the Russian, but had allowed it to appear that they were weakening slowly in their resolve to bring in the FBI, and could be tempted into treason. Remington's final gambit – setting the price of the disks as being the release of Robert Peters – had deviated from Trevelyan's careful script. Laura and Remington had come up with this twist in the tale as they had dressed before coming out, and while both were still irritated at the manipulations that had involved them in this game in the first place. No doubt the British spy and the American spy would be livid with anger later, but for now, it provided Marisa Peters with the chance to rescue her father – if Petrossian agreed.

"Very well, Mr Steele – I shall consult my superiors. You drive a hard bargain. But if they agree, the Soviet Union will discreetly release Robert Peters in exchange for Nigel Farndale's computer disks."

Steele smiled thinly. The hook had been baited and Petrossian had jumped right onto it. This was like the old days, playing the big con...working on people's desires until you had reeled them in.

"I agree with my husband, Mr Petrossian," said Laura. "We're taking a massive chance, a dangerous risk...but we'll do it to help Marisa, if you release her father fully – no strings attached."

Marisa was crying now, and Laura grasped her hand even tighter in a gesture of support. "Remington, Laura...I don't know what to say. Thank you," said the older woman.

Steele smiled gallantly, "Not at all, Marisa."

"In a way, I can't believe you would do it!"

"You're our friend," said Laura. "It's personal. As Forster said, 'If I had to choose between betraying my country and betraying my friend, I hope I should have the guts to betray my country.'"

"Of course, it's up to Mr Petrossian's superiors now, isn't it?" said Remington.

Petrossian finished his vodka, downing it in one quick gulp. "I shall be in touch, Mr Steele. Needless to say, no one must find out about this...situation. Everything must carry on as normal, or American Intelligence will discover that the computer code has been copied by Farndale." He stood up to leave.

"Ah…we understand. We shall not blow the whistle on Farndale, or do anything to rock the boat...until we hear your decision either way."

"Make sure you do not. Remember – I have diplomatic immunity!" Petrossian said with a reptilian smile. He bowed to the table – quite typically Russian – and strode out of the cocktail lounge, followed discreetly by his two henchmen, who jumped up from their table at his nod.

Elsewhere in the bar, half-a-dozen CIA agents watched the Russians leave. And somewhere close by, pondering what he had heard via the hidden microphones – the one in the table centerpiece, the one still taped to Remington's collar bone under his bow tie, and the one stuck to the reverse side of Laura's Correia pendant – was Tony Roselli.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

"Is this really necessary?" asked Laura, as she raised her arms and allowed the bullet proof vest to slip over her head.

"It's just a precaution, Laura, that's all," said Tony Roselli.

Laura was uncomfortably aware of his presence just inches away from her, as he pulled the vest down on top of her black Ton Sur Ton sweatshirt, and began to tighten the straps at the side; she kept her face a blank and maintained an indifferent air nevertheless. Tony was dressed casually, in dark chinos and a gray blouson jacket. Laura looked to her left – about ten yards away, Remington, Mildred and Marisa, also dressed in dark casual clothing, were being helped to put on their vests by three CIA agents, while another was talking to Remington, demonstrating the use of a gun, as Remington nodded his understanding.

"It's nice being close to you again," said Tony.

"Please, Tony."

"What? I'm just saying, that's all. We're friends, aren't we?"

"Hmm," Laura said noncommittally.

"You know, I shouldn'ta let you go so easily, Laura..."

"Tony, let's not go there. Don't delve into the past."

"Hey, come on! All I'm saying is that you're the one that got away."

"Oh dear!" sighed Laura. "Tony...I never got away, because you never had me, okay? Now please, drop this. It could be really embarrassing if Remington overheard us."

"Oh, he's a jealous guy, is he?"

"Very. Very, very jealous! Practically uncontrollable!"

"Yeah, figures. I remember him telling me at Las Hadas 'bout how jealous he was when I first met him...Maybe you gotta a point, Laura – that was a few seconds before he knocked seven bells outta Norman Keyes!"

"So, let's make this as...civilized as we can, shall we? I'm a married woman," said Laura, as she put on her black, Members Only leather jacket and closed the zipper, covering up evidence of the bullet proof vest. The jacket helped, too, to keep out the night chill; it was late November and LA was heading into what passed for it's winter season, and tonight Laura was not wearing a hat but had left her hair loose.

"A guy's gotta try, hasn't he?"

"You've tried three times, Tony – in Mexico, Ireland, and now Los Angeles. And you've struck out. You of all people should know what that means?"

"Back to the dugout, huh?"

"Benched!"

The other three approached them. Laura instinctively took a pace backwards, putting some space between herself and Tony. Marisa had on a long, dark overcoat which covered up her bullet proof vest, and similarly, Remington, in black Levi 501s and a dark green, Ralph Lauren button-neck cashmere sweater, had donned a black, Belstaff English leather motor cycle jacket. Only Mildred had no coat or jacket to cover up her vest.

A car entered the warehouse from the far end, and drove up to where they were standing. A slim, gray haired man in his fifties wearing a suit, got out of the back seat and approached their group. It was Eugene Price, an acquaintance of theirs who was the West Coast Operations Director for the CIA, and someone they had known since the Sheldon Quarry case. "Remington, Laura – how goes things?" he asked.

"Hello Gene," said Laura. "Are you part of our little showdown tonight?"

"This is strictly Mr Roselli's operation, Laura," said Price with a reassuring smile. "But as Operations Director, everything that happens in LA has to be approved by me. I'm just keeping an eye on things." He turned to Tony Roselli, "Roselli, I don't need to tell you to try and keep things straightforward tonight, do I? Let's don't have any dead bodies on my patch, and no gunplay, okay? It wouldn't do our careers any good."

"Yeah, sure, Sir," said Tony, appearing to Laura uncharacteristically deferential; she suspected that Price outranked Tony within the CIA, at least on paper.

"Mr Steele is rather a prominent member of Los Angeles society, so we want him back in one piece, Mr Roselli – understood?"

"You got it, Mr Price."

"Laura, Remington – I've been briefed on this operation, and I know you're both pros, so let me ask the question only once: you're satisfied to go ahead with this? And you Miss Peters? When you go onto that bridge, you'll be alone out there. You'll have back up a short distance away, but right in the middle there you'll be alone – that's why prisoner swaps have always been done on bridges. I want you to be aware of that slight element of risk."

"We understand, Gene," said Remington. "We're in this for Marisa's sake – and for national security, of course. We'll take our chances."

"Right," said Price, looking at his watch. "Nearly 1.30 a.m. Time to go home to bed – my wife probably thinks I'm having an affair, being out at this hour of the morning." He walked back to his car and was driven away.

"Miss Peters, Mrs Steele – shall we run through the briefing now?" asked Alec Trevelyan. He, unlike everyone else, was dressed formally in one of his exquisite black suits, a pale blue dress shirt and a black, knitted woolen tie. He had been silent throughout Eugene Price's visit, and seemed to speak as little as he possibly could. Laura found herself thinking again how unsettling she found the Englishman when he did open his mouth; he seemed to project a sense of disdain even through the most mundane question or statement. The man had no human warmth, as far as she could tell.

They sat in chairs that had been laid out in rows, like a schoolroom, with a blackboard at the front. It was an incongruous sight – this small area laid out for a briefing, with a couple of tables off to the side, and cars with CIA agents coming and going – all in the middle of the vast, abandoned warehouse where they were currently located.

"Right, everybody, could you sit down, so we can brief you?" said Tony. As the various agents and marksmen sat down, Trevelyan and Roselli stood at the front, like two priests before their congregation.

"You are all aware of why we are here: for a prisoner-information exchange. So let's make this a very smooth, simple operation tonight, shall we?" said Trevelyan.

"Yeah," began Tony. "The swap will take place at zero-two-hundred hours on the 6th Street bridge, about two blocks from here, where it crosses the LA River. It'll be done by these civilians, Mr Remington Steele, Mrs Steele and Miss Peters, who will be in that black van over there," he nodded, indicating a GMC Vandura van parked a little distance away. "It'll be driven by their secretary, Miss Krebs."

"Associate, not secretary," said Mildred, looking annoyed. She didn't like Tony Roselli.

"Yeah, sure – associate. Anyway, the Russians will approach the bridge from across the LA River, from East Los Angeles, coming up Whittier Boulevard. Miss Peters and the Steeles will leave here, head a block down Mateo Street and then turn into the 6th Street approach to the bridge, on the western side. Both parties will stop twenty yards from the middle, meet on foot, exchange Robert Peters for the information, and then leave in the same direction they came from. We, of course, will be monitoring."

Tony turned to the chalkboard and pointed to a map. "Snipers – you'll take position on the roof of these buildings here and here, at the entrance to both ends of the bridge. Remain in radio contact with me – I am 'Control' tonight, so final firing decisions are mine. Let me be clear: you're here mainly as a precaution. We're not expectin' trouble, but if anyone draws a gun or there's a firefight, your primary objective will be to protect Miss Peters, her father and the Steeles."

"But try not to get trigger happy, gentlemen, won't you?" said Alec Trevelyan with a sardonic smile.

Tony continued, "Teams A and B, you'll be in these designated warehouses at each end of the bridge, filming the prisoner exchange with high definition telephoto video cameras and condensing parabolic microphones. Teams C and D – you'll be in cars, a coupla blocks from each end of the bridge, ready to do a tail on any vehicles that I instruct you to follow. This is a precaution, as we expect the Russians to quietly drive off, but in case we need to follow them, you be ready. Teams E and F – you'll be parked in a side street close to our end of the bridge – if trouble starts, you drive hell for leather towards the center of the bridge and rescue the Steeles and Miss Peters. Clear? Alright, everyone take your positions."

Most of the CIA agents stood and scattered quickly, jumping into vehicles and driving off. Laura watched the five snipers, dressed in black jumpsuits and loaded up with rifles, bullet proof vests, cartridge packs, radio headsets and night vision goggles, get into a dark van and leave. Only a few agents remained in this temporary base of operations, manning a radio and other control equipment laid out on the tables off to the side. In the shadows, Laura could see an ambulance and a doctor hovering about. She felt a little scared but overwhelmingly excited; she'd become a private detective for nights like these.

"It all seems very thorough, Anthony, old chap," said Remington. "How do you know the KGB is coming from East LA?"

"We've been discreetly following Petrossian – real discreetly," said Tony. "He expects to be followed – it's part of the game – so he always takes precautions. But we tracked him by satellite, actually, and saw that he was headin' for Long Beach earlier tonight."

"Long Beach?"

"A well known Russian pipeline into America, Steele," answered Trevelyan. "It's the United States's second biggest shipping port...Anything – or anyone – they want to secrete into the country can be brought in on a flag of convenience cargo ship, from Panama or Liberia for example, into Long Beach. So much matériel and manpower pass through the port, it's easy to bribe, smuggle or simply passport-in anyone or anything under diplomatic papers."

"And you think that's how Marisa's father was brought into the country, eh?"

"Yeah, sure," said Tony. "My people have been watchin' all the routes from Long Beach to LA, but I think they'll use the Long Beach Freeway – that would make things real easy for them, since it comes directly into East Los Angeles. That's probably the reason _they_ selected the 6th Street bridge for the meeting. You would naturally wanna arrive from Downtown Los Angeles from the west, and they would come at the river crossing from the eastern side."

"And why are you filming the meeting tonight?" asked Laura.

"An excellent question, Mrs Steele," said Trevelyan. "Our main aim is to plant disinformation about Star Wars within the Soviet Union, of course; but capturing Petrossian engaged in espionage on film will be a bonus. We shall file the tape away; it may prove useful in the future if we ever need some leverage over our Russian friend. A mere _bagatelle_, that is all..."

"You seem to be ahead of the KGB every step of the way, huh?" Mildred observed.

"Quite so, Miss Krebs. And it makes for a refreshing change. For the last few years, they have had rather the better of it, unfortunately – at least from my American colleagues' perspective. I don't need to tell you about John Walker, Ronald Pelton and other, similar, double agents that have recently been uncovered? Let alone those moles American Intelligence has _not_ uncovered. So it will be a most welcome blow that we will have struck, if this little _gavotte _of ours reaches its conclusion."

Laura, listening to Trevelyan talk, was struck by how relatively animated he was when discussing the espionage plot against the Russians; it was the first time he had appeared more than an emotionless robot.

"Well, it's nearly time – you gotta go," said Tony. "Good luck!"

Trevelyan said nothing, a waxwork statue as Mildred got behind the wheel of the black van, and Laura, Marisa and Remington piled into the back through the side door.

Mildred drove out through the huge doors of the old warehouse, and headed the one block through side streets to the bridge. Just as she turned onto it, she stopped and turned to face Remington. "Ready, Boss?" she asked.

Steele, tense, nodded assent and Mildred pulled onto the bridge and drove to a few yards short of the middle. A dark car with blacked out windows – it looked like an Oldsmobile – approached from the other end and stopped about forty yards away, and then a man in a suit got out.

Laura, Marisa and Remington left the van and went to meet him. Steele walked ten yards to the side of the women, so that if the man pulled a gun, there would be two separate targets. Laura and Marisa went up to the man, right in the middle of the roadway, while Remington stayed off to the side, watching the action but not participating.

"What color is the boathouse at Hereford?" asked the man in some sort of East European accent.

"Blue now, but it used to be green," said Laura, replying with the code phrase that had been agreed between them and the KGB.

"I am Kostmayer. You're Mrs Steele? And Miss Peters? And that man is Mr Steele?"

"Uh-huh," said Laura.

"Mr Steele," said the man, raising his voice slightly. "Should I assume you are armed?" Remington flashed a smile and opened his Belstaff jacket, showing off the shiny nickel-plated automatic which the CIA had given him and which he carried in a holster on his belt. It was a 9mm, heavier and more powerful than the agency's .38 caliber revolver.

"Just a precaution," said Laura. "It's in _all_ our interests for this to be smooth and trouble free, yes?"

"Yes. So let's have no tricks." The man turned and gestured to the Oldsmobile. The doors opened and two figures descended. Laura recognized Petrossian. The other, older man was very tall, maybe even taller than Remington, and had brown, thinning hair; wearing dark, formal pants and a heavy, casual style jacket which was too warm for Los Angeles, he was slightly stooped over and walked a little slowly, but unsupported. Robert Peters.

"Miss Peters, Mrs Steele – we meet again," said Petrossian, when the two men had reached the group.

"Nice to see you, Mr Petrossian," said Laura.

"Dad!" said Marisa, staring hard at her father. She began to cry, as Laura squeezed her upper arm in a gesture of support.

Robert Peters was staring at Marisa blankly, as if he didn't recognize her. "Marisa? What am I doing here? Why am I being released?"

"It'll be alright, Dad. I'll explain everything later."

"Miss Peters, believe me," said Petrossian, "he may have lost a little weight, but for a man of his age, he's quite well, I can assure you."

"He does look thin. Don't worry Dad, we'll have to feed you extra portions, to build your strength back up, won't we?"

Robert Peters smiled for the first time, "You sound like your mother, Marisa. She was always trying to stuff me with food as well...she always said a person wasn't healthy unless they had a round face!"

Steele watched the father and daughter reunion, but kept a weather eye on Petrossian's henchman, Kostmayer. He concentrated on looking mean but not twitching. Steele was no expert with a gun, and didn't like them – in fact, Laura was a much better shot than him – and he knew that if the KGB thug got nervous and pulled his weapon, he would easily get the drop on him. Steele thought that it would have been better if Laura had played the bodyguard role and he had done the talking with Marisa.

Petrossian interrupted Marisa and her father, "You have the disks?"

Laura handed them over. "Farndale must have told you that the disks have an identifying hologrammatic symbol on them? These are the real disks, believe me."

"I know about the hologram," said Petrossian. "And, as perverse as it may sound, Mrs Steele, I trust you."

"You do?"

"Of course. Your husband is Remington Steele. Everyone in Los Angeles knows that his word is his bond."

"Yes, of course...how silly of me."

"And the three of you have just committed treason, so I know you have as much to lose as we do."

"Agreed. We don't want to be exposed, and we don't want to expose Farndale, because if his role comes out, ours will too. So let's all of us just quietly go our separate ways, okay?"

"Certainly, Mrs Steele. It is a pleasure dealing with such a practical, pragmatic woman. In Russia, most women are not so practical – stoical, yes, but not practical." Laura nodded at his compliment, and wondered whether Petrossian was flirting with her; if so, it was the sternest flirtation she'd ever experienced. "And in any case, I think that after our business has been conducted, I shall soon leave your fair city. I believe I shall be transferred to another, and even more important, posting."

"Making your way up in the world, huh?" Laura said with a smile.

"Certainly not, that is a bourgeois concept."

"No career ladder in the KGB?"

"There are only different levels of authority that have been _earned_, Mrs Steele. Not granted by cronies or achieved through some default sense of entitlement!"

"Well, enjoy the new posting – and the dacha – Mr Petrossian."

Petrossian turned to Marisa, "Miss Peters, this must all be kept quiet. If American Intelligence finds out we have this missile code, it will become useless to us. So, keep the release of your father as quiet as possible, and do not alert the media, even your own newspaper. Keep him 'under wraps' as you say, for as long as you can. Understood? Of course, his release will eventually be noticed, but your story will be that he was released by the Soviet Union on compassionate grounds. There must be no mention of the Steeles, of Farndale, of Petrossian, of the KGB…clear?"

"I understand," replied Marisa, now standing with her father, holding hands.

"In that case, I bid you goodnight. Please do not make any sudden moves as you leave," said Petrossian, bowing to the women and Robert Peters, before heading for his car, accompanied by the ever-watchful Kostmayer.

Laura, Remington, Marisa and Robert Peters backed towards their van, keeping an eye on the retreating Russians, until they had all climbed inside. Mildred swung it around and drove off the bridge in the direction from which they had come.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

When Mildred pulled into the warehouse, they saw that Tony Roselli and Alec Trevelyan were standing with a couple of other agents by the equipment tables, in front of a bank of monitors, which no doubt displayed the pictures relayed from the two camera teams. Roselli was wearing a pair of headphones with a microphone attached, and was speaking into the radio, giving instructions to his agents.

"Well, that went smooth as silk, didn't it?" said Tony, as Laura and the others approached. "The Russians drove into East LA and disappeared; we didn't follow them. My guess is they'll head straight back to Long Beach and get those disks outta the country as soon as possible."

Robert Peters climbed out of the van last, and joined the group clustered near the monitors. He raised a hand in greeting to Trevelyan, "Alec, my boy – I should've guessed you would be behind this!"

Trevelyan smiled – quite sincerely – and reached out to shake Robert Peters' hand. "Robert, welcome back. You're well, I trust? Not too careworn by the company of our bearish friends?"

Marisa looked at her father, puzzled. "Dad, do you know this man?"

There was a sudden silence in the group. Robert Peters stopped smiling as he spoke to his daughter, "Er, yes, Marisa – I know Alec."

"How?"

"Because..." Laura interrupted, her mind whirring, "your father is a spy, Marisa. Isn't that so, Mr Peters?"

Alec Trevelyan answered, "How sharp on the uptake you are, Mrs Steele! As you surmise, Robert Peters and I have worked together for some years."

Marisa still looked puzzled, "Dad, what is he talking about? Does he really mean that you're..."

"Miss Peters, your father is a Company man," said Trevelyan, blank faced. "An officer in the CIA."

"I'm sorry you had to find out this way, Marisa," said Robert Peters.

"Sorry! I find out when you're in your seventies that you're a spy, and all you can say is 'sorry'! How can it be? For how long? And why didn't these people help you when you were arrested?" Marisa looked distraught, and had turned red with anger as she yelled at her father.

Remington, Laura and the others dared not interrupt as father and daughter confronted one another. "Do you know that I've spent the last two-and-a-half years of my life doing everything I could to get you released – you, the poor, unimportant publisher? And all the time, you were a _spy_?"

"Marisa, listen to me..."

"No! Do you know how many sleepless nights I've had worrying about you? I've traveled across two continents begging people for help; trying to drum up publicity about your case; spending every penny I had hiring dubious characters to try and rescue you. And all the time, you worked for the goddamned CIA!"

"We couldn't help him, 'cos that woulda blown his cover, you see?" said Tony Roselli, trying to calm the situation.

"Dad! Listen to him! He's saying that they _let_ you rot in prison for more than two years!"

"And it was the right thing to do, Marisa," said Robert Peters. "Everyone who enters this business knows the risks and is prepared for them."

"I didn't know! Two-and-a-half years of heartache and anguish! No one ever told _me_! Especially not you!"

"Our job is secret...I couldn't tell you, my dear. Your mother never knew. For most of us in the game, we cannot tell even our closest family about what we do."

"Your father is a very important man, Miss Peters," said Trevelyan. "It was essential that his cover was never blown. To the KGB, he was merely a foolish, idealistic American publisher who was trying to help inconsequential dissidents escape the Soviet Union. If we – the Western intelligence agencies – had helped him, it would have alerted the KGB to his real role."

"But...you did help him, didn't you?" said Laura slowly, her mind turning over in double-time as she spoke. "Tonight was all about getting him released, wasn't it?"

"You are extremely perspicacious, Mrs Steele," said Trevelyan to Laura, with what seemed to be real admiration.

"This whole business with the missile computer code was a red herring, wasn't it?" continued Laura. "Your main aim was to get the KGB to release Robert Peters?"

"Quite so, Mrs Steele. Russian computer scientists may not be as good as those in the West, but they are not fools. They will look at the computer code and soon realize it is worthless. But, if our hopes are fulfilled, the KGB will simply write this incident off as a dead end, and forget about it. On its face, tonight's operation will have cost them nothing more than the release of an insignificant American political prisoner."

Remington had quickly caught up with Laura's thinking. "You set us up!" he exclaimed.

"You were sure that we would ask for Robert Peters' release, weren't you?" said Laura.

"I suspected so. You see, our dossier on you Steele, while rather incomplete, did indicate you to be a man who nearly always makes a daring play. You have a psychological propensity towards the audacious maneuver – it's what makes you such a famous detective. I must say, I genuinely admire you."

"So you...expected me to poke you and Tony in the eye, by deviating from the script you'd written?" said Remington.

"Interestingly put, but quite true. I hoped – expected – that you would ask for Robert Peters' release from Petrossian without my needing to even plant the idea in your head. And it was indeed so."

"I'll hand it to you, Trevelyan – you played me like a violin from the very beginning."

"And the rest of us," added Laura. "Farndale, Marisa, Petrossian, Mildred, me...you had us all fooled."

"I have certain skills as a watchmaker, Mrs Steele. But let me take this opportunity to say how much I admire _you. _I am sincere when I say that you are an even more brilliant detective than your husband."

"Save your compliments – I find them unwelcome. You used us; you had no compunction about using anyone in order to achieve your ends. No doubt you believe, Mr Trevelyan, that the ends justify the means?" asked Laura angrily.

"Laura, listen..." said Tony, before Trevelyan could answer.

"No, Tony – I won't! You're just as bad as him! Trevelyan may have devised this little scheme, but you were right there alongside him as his co-pilot. You were quite prepared to expose us to retribution by the KGB if anything had gone wrong, and we wouldn't have known what was really going on!"

"I did say, Mrs Steele, that this is a _game_. The espionage game. A game of bluff and double bluff," said Trevelyan.

Remington, bristling with anger, said, "A game? Your game could've got us killed!"

Trevelyan remained impassive. "Steele, our American friends have an admirable saying – 'no harm, no foul'. It would seem apposite, would it not?"

Remington shouted, "NO HARM, NO FOUL? You had us negotiating with the KGB...you sent us out onto that bridge...anything could've happened! The KGB wouldn't have hesitated to kill us at any time if they found out we were double-crossing them!"

"But you were conning the KGB about Farndale's so-called secret computer code _anyway_, weren't you, Steele? So what difference does it make to you that we added another layer of deception to the scenario? Or is it the biter being bit – the fact that I bluffed you, as well as the KGB – that irks you?"

"You used us, you bastard! That's what irks me!" said Steele viciously.

Tony Roselli, watching the confrontation, saw Steele make a move forward, as if he was going to attack Trevelyan; anticipating it, Tony moved in front of him and put a restraining hand on his chest. "Easy, Remington! Take it easy!" he said quietly into Steele's ear. Tony matched Steele's height and weight, and used all his strength to restrain him. "Don't do it...He's outta your league. Alec could kill you before you had even blinked!" It was the first time Tony had ever addressed Steele by his first name.

"Please, Mr Steele – let's avoid any unnecessary violence, shall we?" said an unperturbed Trevelyan. "My friend Roselli flatters me, but it is true I have certain skills in unarmed combat that are...well honed."

Laura was scared. She moved to Remington's side and held his arm in a restraining gesture. "Please, Remington – calm down. Trevelyan isn't worth it."

Steele snorted, but Laura felt him relax his body. She stayed clinging to his left arm, reassuring him and drawing reassurance from him in turn.

Mildred, who had been shocked by the confrontation, now asked, "Why did you drag us into this? What did it have to do with the Boss?"

Trevelyan eyed up Mildred for a few seconds, as if deciding whether she was important enough to deign to answer. "Miss Krebs, we desired Robert Peters to be released, but unfortunately his daughter had been singularly unsuccessful in achieving that end. What was needed was some incentive for the Russians to release him...such as some rather enticing, Top Secret information. But where would a civilian like Miss Peters obtain such information? Where else, but from her close friends, Mr and Mrs Remington Steele, of Remington Steele Investigations?"

"I see," said Robert Peters, "that my appearance here has led to some unpleasantness, for which I am sorry. I am a little tired, however; would it be possible for me to sit down, and perhaps get a cup of coffee?"

Marisa Peters simply stood and stared at her father, her face still registering betrayal mixed with utter bewilderment.

"Forgive us, Robert – you're right," said Trevelyan. "Come with me; we'll have the doctor look you over, shall we?" He took Peters by the arm, and gently led him towards the ambulance which was parked some fifteen yards away.

Steele, with his jaw still clenched tight in simmering anger, said, "Let's get out of her Laura, Mildred." He strode towards the GMC Vandura and climbed behind the wheel, followed by Laura and Mildred, who got in next to him in the front.

"Hey! That's our van," said Tony. "Where are you going, huh? What about your bullet proof vests? We need them back."

"So sue us, you big ape!" said Mildred through the window. Remington gunned the engine, and drove out of the warehouse with a squeal of tires, leaving Tony Roselli staring after them.

They had driven in silence for fifteen minutes through the nearly deserted streets of night-time LA, when Mildred said, "You alright, Boss? You got a little more than hot under the collar, there."

"Oh...you're right, Mildred," Steele said, exhaling deeply. "On occasion, I can be a bit too quick to anger, eh? I would probably save myself an ulcer in the future if I wasn't so over-passionate sometimes."

"Nah...You and Mrs S. – you're passionate people. And anyway, there wouldn't be any _compassion_ without passion. So don't change."

"Mildred's right, Remington," said Laura, clinging onto her husband's right arm with both of hers, and leaning her head against his shoulder. "I like you the way you are...Cool, dispassionate people – they're the ones, like Trevelyan, who have no qualms at all about stabbing people in the back without a second thought. Your passion shows you care."

Remington smiled at last; his anger had mostly gone. "Stabbing in the back is right, Laura," he said. "And his job with MI6 seems to give him a veritable license to kill, doesn't it?"


End file.
